THE
PRISONERS  OF  ST.-LAZARE,
BY
MADAME * *  
EDITED BY
MtE. PAULINE DE GRANDPRE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCO  BY
MRS. E  M..  M. MCARTHY.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
549 & 551 BROADWAY.
1872.




ENTEiRED, according to Act of Congress, in the year IS71, by
D. APPLETON & CO.,
In the Ofice of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




EDITOR'S PREFACE.
THEi manuscript of this work was left me by a
dear friend, now deceased, and who died before
reaching her thirtieth year. You who may read
these lines, study well the matter she places before
you. It was gathered by her almost on, the verge
of the tomb. Mtay the living seek to profit by the
experience of those who have gone before!
Although the work has been written with all the
reserve a matter so delicate requires, it is not one to
be placed indiscriminately in the hands of young
girls.  But all mothers should read it, and all
young girls who have lost their mothers.
PAULINE DE GRANDPRE~.
Paris.








ThRAINSLATOR'S  PREFACE.
TEE evils that fester within the bosom of French
society may have peculiar features of their own,
but it cannot be denied that there is at least sufficient parity in the state of affairs here to make this
book useful to the American public. The remedies
it suggests for some of these evils are certainly
worth considering.  Society owes it to itself to
shield the honest poor, especially those of the
weaker sex, from the dangers to which destitution
exposes them, and to do so in a way that will not
wound a just pride. It ought to protect those who,
once unfortunate, desire to return to the paths of
virtue and honor.
In the incarceration of women for transgressions
of the law, moral reformation, more than merely
vindictive punishment, should be the object kept in
view. This is to be accomplished not by obtrusive
measures, not by violating the religious freedom of
the prisoner, but by means and opportunities ever




6           TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
present and ever accessible to her, by which conscience may be awakened, or directed when awakened, and a path made clear by which she may
escape a life of ignominy. We take St.-Lazaro, so
far as this book gives us an insight into its discipline, to be a prison managed with this view of reforming quite as much as of punishing its inmates.
What it chiefly needs to make it more effective is
the supplementary institution referred to in the appendix. The interior administration of this prison
appears to be in the hands of women entirely devoted to their work from religious motives, and
carrying the best of influences into the discharge
of their duties, whether as custodians, as industrial
superintendents, or as kind counsellors.
Desiring to do homage to the nobility of purpose
which evidently animated the authoress, the translator has availed herself of her scanty leisure to put
the work in an English dress, hoping that it may
thus be rendered more accessible to the many good
and noble men and women who interest themselves
in behalf of the unfortunate. The dramatic cast
given to some portions of the book will not perhaps
be in accord with the tastes of those who will read
it in its English version, and they might be tempted
to set it aside on this account as in some degree
sensational. We beg to remind them, however, that




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.             7
the book is written by a Frenchwoman, and addressed to the tastes of those of her own nation,
while honestly seeking to enlist their sympathy and
attention in behalf of the suffering or the tempted
of her sex. To adapt it the better to the end it is
to serve among its present readers, some superfluities in the original have been retrenched.
It was the desire of MIdlle. Grandpre that the
work should be translated in this country, and that
any profits that might accrue from the publication
should be devoted to the undertaking she has in
hand, or had, previous to the terrible misfortunes
that have fallen upon Paris, the Asylum  for the
Discharged Prisoners of St.-Lazare (" C(uvre des
Liberees de Saint-Lazare").  It is the intention of
the translator to cooperate in this wish of MIdlle.
Grandpre.
SYRACUSE, N. Y., April, 1871.








THE
PRISONERS OF ST.-LA ZARE.
Azugst 1, 1865.
DEAR ItARmIE: I promised you an account of my
impressions during my sojourn at " St.-Lazare," and,
to assure you of the approaching fulfilment of that
promise, I announce that I have arrived, and that
my first thought is of you.
I am in my chamber, writing to you upon a little
table placed before a window which overlooks the
court-yard of the prison. WThat sad but salutary
reflections crowd upon the mind! There are before
me a multitude of women, some guilty, all unfortunate. lMany are condemned justly, and certainly
all are condemned by public opinion. Soon I shall
be permitted a nearer view to study them, to listen
to them, and, perhaps, to console them.
Marie, why are you not with me-you, whose
voice is so sweet, whose glance is so sympathetic,
and whose heart is so good —you, who would
know much better than I how to dry their tears?
You, whose mind is so elevated, could comprehend
them better, and, gathering up their confessions,
draw from them suitable instruction for others.
Although I may not have: your superior intelli



10       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
gence, nor possess your rare soul, dear MBarie, I will
listen, I will observe, and will convey to you all my
impressions, both cheering and saddening.  You
will answer me, and we shall perpetuate the union
of our early youth, when, with our hearts upon our
lips, we walked hand-in-hand, enjoying together the
perfume of the flowers, and the refreshing coolness
of the breezes.
It was only last evening that I reached the
prison. The journey was a long one, and, overcome by fatigue, I fell asleep in the carriage. I
was suddenly awakened from my uneasy slumbers
by the abrupt stoppage of my vehicle, and the
hasty opening of the door, with the announcement
by the coachman, "Here we are, madame.".While
my baggage was being unloaded, I cast a frightened
glance upon the facade of my new dwelling; but,
as the night was dark, the street-light afforded me
only an imperfect view of a mass of gray stone.
An armed sentry, on guard, stood motionless in the
angle of the gate-way. An indescribable sadness
came over me as if, on crossing the tllreshold, I
were about to renounce my liberty. I hazarded a
light stroke of the knocker, and the porter turned
the heavy lock with a loud noise.
"What do you wish, madame? "
"I wish to see M. X.," said I.
"Very well, madame; such a floor and such a
door."
The corridor was large, the stairs were wide,
and, as I slowly mounted them, beloved friends




THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.          11
gathered around me, pressing my hand in joyful
welcome, and leading me in.  On entering the
parlor I accidentally caught a glimpse of my face in
the mirror. I was pale, and could but smile at my
frightened look; however, I was quickly reassured
by seeing the pleasure that my arrival had caused.
~We ate, we talked, and finally, when on retiring I
threw myself upon the bed, I forgot the prison and
its inmates.
I awoke this morning, overcome by fatigue, and
lay in a semi-conscious state between dreaming and
waking, startled at intervals by lound voices. When
I opened my eyes it was with difficulty that I could
discern the objects that surrounded me. MIy curtains were carefully closed, and scarcely a ray of
light was permitted to enter my chamber.  Suddenly I remembered that I was in " St.-Lazare."  I
arose from my bed, and, hastily throwing on a dressing-gown, drew aside my bed-curtains, and repaired
to the window.  Looking down, I beheld the inmates of St.-Lazare, or, at least, that portion of
them who enjoy the privilege of a recreation in the
morning.  It was their voices that had aided to
awaken me.
The first court-yard (la premiere cozr) of St.Lazare is very spacious, and is divided in two by a
high wall, rising to the height of the first story.
One part, which is paved and inaccessible to the inmates, is appropriated entirely to  the carriages
which bring hither daily so many unhappy ones.
The other portion is planted with trees of tolerable




12       TiHE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
size, with leaves of a sickly green. One would suppose that the sun never visited them, and that they
were watered with tears.
You know how much I love fine trees and verdure; well, it may be strange, but here these objects
inspire no cheerfulness; they rather sadden me. Can
it be possible for the wind ever to circulate among
their stunted branches? No; they are without life,
without air.  Like the poor inmates whom  they
shelter, one might imagine even that they wanted
liberty. This place is full of interest. Trees, buildings, every thing, I shall examine narrowly, but especially the inmates, of whom, as yet, I know nothing.
August 2d.
My second night at St.-Lazare has been a
strangely agitated one. I was no longer fatigued
as on the preceding night, and the slightest noise
was sufficient to arouse me. I heard almost every
quarter sounded by the great clock in the middle of
the court-yard.
I arose while yet the street-light threw its ominons reflection upon numerous windows, garnished
by bars of iron. I do not know why I was afraid,
but I crouched in my bed, concealing my head under
the covering, finally falling asleep. The most fantastic dreams visited me. Undoubtedly one sleeps
badly in prison, even with a tranquil conscience.
This morning my friends laugh at my fears of the
past nioht. I desired to go out that I might per



THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.         13
suade myself of the fact that I was free, and, as
I presented myself at the outer door, the keeper
stepped suddenly before me, and, looking at me for
a moment with an air of suspicion, said:
" What do you wish, madame?"
"Sir," I replied, " will you have the kindness to
open the door? "
-He hesitated still, then suddenly striking his
forehead, pulled off his cap with a lively movement,
and said to me:
" [ recognize you now, madame; you are the person who came here the day before yesterday; you
can pass, madame."
He then turned his great key in the heavy lock,
and I stood outside. He had taken me at first for
one of the inmates endeavoring to escape. I inquired how those who lived there until their term of
sentence had expired were set free, and found that
for the inmates of the first section it was very
simple. A card is given to each one, on which is
written the word "Liberty," which she presents to
the keeper at the door. It wvas this passport that
he awaited from me, and that, as you can readily
imagine, I was not prepared to give him. Formerly
a superintendent accompanied the liberated person
to the door and pronounced the word "Liberty,"
and this magic word sufficed to open the door to the
inmates of this section of St.-Lazare. As to those
of the second and third sections, they are liberated
only at the priefecture.




14      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
August 3d.
I-low vast these corridors are, dear TMarie, on
which the cells of the inmates open to the right and
left! I cannot give you an exact description of them
to-day; I will enter upon details as they shall naturally present themselves.
The prisoners are distributed among three sections: the first contains those under arrest, or who
have been already tried; the second is composed of
depraved women; and the third of young girls sent
for correction. They all wear a uniform, consisting
of a gown of coarse woollen stuff-brown, blue, or
gray, according to the section to which they belong
-and a light-blue cape, with a cap of cloth. This
costume is neither elegant nor poetic, and, indeed,
strikes one at once as being decidedly ugly.
Augtut 4th.
I am sad and I feel unwell; it is cloudy, and will
rain perhaps. I have not left my room to-day, and
my only distraction has been to observe the inmates.
Poor women! whatever their faults may be, however
low they may have fallen, I feel for them an immeasurable pity.  At the hour of recreation they pass
into the court like shadows, and are obliged to speak
in a subdued tone of voice. No sound reaches my
ear, although so little space separates us.  The
greater part remain seated on the benches, while
the rest walk slowly around. I do not know to
what section these belong.




THE PRISON. OF ST.-LAZARE.        15
When the young girls of the department of correction take their recreation, there is much noise
and running about, but the others are more grave,
because they have suffered more.  Some of the
religious are always with themn. What a contrast!
The sisters are calm and serene, and their presence
produces a good influence.  They live amid the
victims of every vice, of every passion, and of every
kind of misery, yet nothing affects or agitates them;
they resemble a rock placed in the~midst of the billows, which, beaten by the waves, remains immovable, and braves the fury of every tempest. The
religious wear habits of black serge, and upon the
head a triple veil-one of white cambric, the other
two of woollen material, one blue, the other black.
The hair and part of the forehead are entirely
concealed  by  a white band2  A  circular cape,
made of white linen, like the bland, covers the
shoulders, a crucifix is suspended round the neck,
and a rosary, attached to the belt, hangs at the
side.
These women, admirable for their simplicity, are
happy in their sublime vocation, and are uniformly
cheerful. In the infirmary, devoted nurses; in the
workshops, vigilant guardians; they devote themselves to these unhappy ones, instructing, consoling,
and watching over them, and doing all without
effort and without disgust.  The labors of their
exile do not weary them, for their kingdom is not of
this world. They are beloved as well as respected:
to convince you of this, it is sufficient to say that




16        TIE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
fifty religious hold in perfect discipline twelve hundred inmates-twelve hundred women!
The sisters of the prison have their mother-house
near Limoges.  The congregation was instituted
less than twenty-five years ago; little by little it
has extended itself, until now it serves almost all
the prisons of France.  They are called the " Sisters
of Ilarie-Joseph."
But of what importance is the name, whether
known as " Sisteis of St. Vincent de Paul,"  "Little
Sisters of the Poor," or "Sisters of MIarie-Joseph?"
All belong to that great family Christianity has
given birth to for the consolation of sorrowing hunanity.
This Christian family, the refuge of the sick, the
support of orphans, the consolation of the miserable
everywhere-this family, indispensable to our hospitals and prisons, Franrce, our dear country, is justly
proud of, as lending additional lustre to her glory.
In the presence of its members, the impious themselves are restrained: in the same breath  with
which the latter proclaim  "Defiance to Almighty
God," they exclailll "All honor to the sisters! "...
But MZarie, I must pause. The thought of the sisters has so engrossed me that I have forgotten my
prisoners...
"What has brought all these women to St.-Lazare?" you will ask. —Ah! what a mournful variety
of miseries!-But, you ask me, have all these women
arrived at the same goal by the same course? Are
they all women of the lowest grade in life?   TNo, all




THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.         17
the vices of civilization, all ranks of society, are represented here. But are all alike perverse, vicious,
and depraved? Again, no. Let me relate to you
the case of one as described to me by the MotherAssistant:
A young girl of fourteen is arrested by the
police as a vagrant, and sent to St.-Lazare. Her
exterior is prepossessing. She is questioned. The
poor child cannot read; she has been baptized, perhaps, but has never made her first communion, nor
has she even ever heard of God, nor been taught
any ideas of morality. Her parents led bad lives
and her life has been like theirs.
Here she is instructed, spoken to of heaven; of
her soul, and of the dignity that belongs to woman;
she has been taught her duties toward God, toward
society, toward herself; and there have been gradually revealed, in this poor, abandoned girl, all the
best traits of mind and heart. She has become an
example to her companions, has the piety of an
angel, is constant in labor, and full of gratitude to
the sisters.
One night the religious who was on duty, on
visiting her cell, found her sleeping upon the boards
of her little bed, enveloped in a large, coarse, brown
woollen spread, having removed the mattresses. As
she was sleeping soundly, the sister did not awaken
her, but the next day she was questioned by the
superior, when she confessed that she was imposing
upon herself this penance, hoping thereby to obtain
from  Heaven the conversion of her father and




18       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
mother. Poor child!-She no longer harbored the
remembrance that her father had often beaten her,
and that her mother had refused her bread and
shelter.
Dear Marie, I cannot refrain from making a few
reflections upon our own lives. Had we been reared
as this girl has been, what would have been our
destiny? God, on the contrary, placed us in the
bosom of honorable families, where we beheld only
the best examples. The women of our families were
pure, and the men uncorrupted; we were born far
from the poisonous atmosphere of large cities; we
lived in the wholesome open air, like two shrubs,
healthy and vigorous; and, to counteract any rusticity of manners that might be engendered by our
country-life, we had thrown around our childhood
the charm, the perfume, the poetry of religion. Do
you not remember the flowers we used to gather in
the park and carry to the village church, where our
mothers taught us to arrange them with our own
hands? You will also remember those rustic processions which wound their way over the fields, or
beneath the trees which overshadowed the paths,
and how their white banners fluttered in the breeze!
How devout were the hymns of the peasants, how
sweet the voices of the priests! hIow often, with
tears of devotion, we knelt to implore the protection
of the saints, bending reverently before their shrines!
Our mothers restrained our wayward inclinations, and developed the germs of all that was good
in us. Your disposition was amiable, and care was




THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.          19
taken to fortify you against its excesses; my nature
was a proud one, and it was moulded into dignity.
It is expected of us now, therefore, that we should
fulfil great duties, for from  "those who have received much, much will be required."
August 517i.
In our day, dear,Marie, the character, the varied
dispositions, and the wants of woman, are an allengrossing subject.  Some depreciate and others
extol her; perhaps no one knows her thoroughly.
Her nature is a profound one, and not easily fathomed.
She is sometimes sublimely disinterested, at others
absurdly selfish; she is a being engrossed in many
cares, full of whims and caprices, perhaps, but no
less so of charms and sweetnesses; sometimes rising
to the height of energy and self-devotion, and- again
as weak as an infant. Inspired with enthusiasm,
she becomes even stronger than man. Her character, then, is a legitimate object of study, for, upon
this many-sided creature depend, in a great degree,
the happiness and security of society.
Man has in vain endeavored to study woman;
the subject baffles him; he finds it difficult to understand her. It is necessary to be a womrn, in order
to paint all the shades of woman's character, to
throw light upon all the recesses of her heart, to account for the vacillations that are peculiar to her,
to reveal the motives of the joy or of the sorrow
that make up her existence. But of what value will




20       THEE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
be even the most conscentious study?-how sterile
in results must it be, if it have not for its object to
provide a stimulus for her virtues, and an antidote
for her faults!
Pardon me, 3,~arie, for these digressions, in which
from time to time I shall presume to indulge. I feel
sure of your approval, and I am also sure that you
sympathize with my subject, and that, to one of the
best of women, a topic that concerns her sex cannot
be a matter of indifference.
10 o'clock in the evening.
All the inmates are sleeping; what silence!
H-low calm is every thing about me; no sounds but
the monotonous song of the cricket, and the distant
rumbling of carriages in noisy Paris! The sky is
so clear; the stars twinkle in myriads, and the moon
shines down into the court-yard upon the motionless
trees. On all the inmates the bolts are securely
drawn.
Ulnfortunate women, what visions occupy them?
They dream, perhaps, of liberty, or they return to
the home of their childhood, a wretched hovel it
may be, covered with moss, the fire shining upon
the hearth, the grandmother at the spinning-wheel,
the children grouped around the father, who relates
legends of former days. Happy hours, when they
could sleep peacefully on their straw couch, when
remorse and suffering, sin and sorrow, were unknown! Alas! sin and sorrow stand now by the




THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.         21
cot of this poor prisoner, and only await her awakening to be recognized! Sleep on, then, unhappy
ones, over whose souls sin has breathed its poisonotls miasma. To-morrow you will awake to another
day of expiation.  Repentance effaces crime, and
God pardons, but society never forgets!
MIidynigZt.
I have written little, dear friend, but I have
thought much. Midnight sounds from that great
clock which measures time with frightful rapidity;
midnight! the hour when tombs open, and the dead
return to visit the homes that knew them in life.
Ah! if all the dead of St.-Lazare could return to life,
what a mournful procession of phantoms should we
behold! Those pale spectres were, when living, the
opprobrium of society, but, dying, they departed in
the peace of heaven; for over their heads the Christian priest raised his consecrated hands, and reconciled them to God. —equiescant ih, pace!
AAugust 6th, 4 o'clock in thle morning.
I threw myself upon the bed, but without the
power to rest. I slept a few hours, but my sleep
was disturbed.
Four o'clock, and the little birds are already
awake and begin to sing; with what joyous notes
they salute the opening day! They are at liberty,
these little birds; they come from choice to eat the




22       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
bread of the prisoners, but they can also fly rapidly
away, for space is free to them.
Five o'clock.
The religious have already risen; the clock has
called them to the chapel to say the "Angelus."  I
will go to pray with them..... Dear Marie, I have
prayed for you, for all I love, and for all who suffer.
Prayer is, for woman above all, consolation and
strength; and, when offered to God in the early
morning, raises the soul on high, and insures a day
of purity and calm.
tAugust zt1h.
One of the saddest emotions I experience here
is occasioned by the arrival of the prison-vans, which
stop just under my window. They hlave something
ominous in their rumble; the keepers gather in the
court, the turnkey opens the door, and these unfortunate females descend and enter the prison-gate.
Some, dressed in startling toilets, descend laughingly from the dismal carriage; others, clad more
simply, cross the threshold of St.-Lazare with a
calm and dignified step; but far the greater number
wear tattered and disordered garments, the livery
of idleness and dissipation.
There has just arrived an old woman who, with
much difficulty, totters along, supported by her cane,
and a young child of ten years, the latter found
homeless and abandoned in the streets of Paris.
HIow the spectacle grieves my heart!




THE PRISON OF ST.-LAZARE.          23
A few days ago a young woman, in the flower of
her age, was brought here, dying of exhaustion from
hunger; she was so feeble that the keepers were
obliged to carry her, and she was as pale as a corpse.
For her, succor came too late; she had suffered too
long, and she died of weakness. Misery is always
heart-rending, but when one is brought to it by
vice it is frightful! and this is the fate of the
greater part of dissolute women. These poor creatures consume their youth in a few foolish and tempestuous joys; and, at the age when other women
have arrived at the full bloom of life, these are jaded
and worn out, and are fast hastening to the grave.
August 8th.
The name of "St.-Lazare" inspires terror; it is
a tigma of infamy, for it is popularly believed that
this house is a refuge only for women of bad repute.
This is an error. There are females committed here
for slight offences, and some may even be guiltless
of the charges alleged against them; but, innocent
or guilty, all the inmates will carry with them
through life the stigma of having been committed
to " St.-Lazare."
The reputation of a woman resembles a delicate
flower, that the least impure breath can tarnish forever. It is not sufficient to be virtuous only, it is
necessary also never to have been suspected.




24       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
August 9th.
The weather is warm, the sky is clear, alnd the
sun is dazzling.  You should hear my swallows
chirp! The window of the work-room looks out
upon a little court where some lovely little messengers of spring are building their nests. I call this
the "Court of Swallows," because I never see any
other species of bird in it. WVhen I am tired of
writing, I draw aside my white curtains and listen
to the chattering of my graceful, black-winged
neighbors. I watch their little pastimes, and see
them make their evolutions around the nests of their
young. From this court also, the songs of some of
the inmates reach my ear; they sing at certain
hours the hymns that the religious teach them, and
sing in perfect harmony. This music, although firom
feeble throats, breaks agreeably the silence of the
prison, and is very moving, especially when we call
to mind that the voices we hear are those chiefly of
young girls from whose lips were formerly heard
only the accents of mad revelry. They also accompany the organ in the chapel, which is played by
one of the religious.  It is touching to listen to
them; their voices move our hearts; why may they
not also move the heart of God?




HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF ST.-LAZARE.
ST.-LAZArE occupies the site of an ancient abbey
destroyed by the Normans in 885, but the origin of
which is lost in the night of ages. On its ruins a
hospital was established for the reception of the numerous victims of Eastern leprosy among the ranks
of the returned Crusaders. Hence the name, "St.Lazare,' St. Lazarus being regarded as the patron
saint of lepers.  As a hospital, it was served by
monks and nuns of the Augustinian order. The
kings of the third French race frequently visited it.
In fact, one portion of the house bore the title of
":Logis clu Roi."  Kings and queens, at the beginning of their reign, were accustomed to spend
twenty days here. After their death, the royal remains were deposited for a time at St.-Lazare, where
the funeral absolution was given before their removal to the vaults of St.-Denis.
In 1632 St. Vincent de Paul established here his
congregation, the Lazarists, so called from the place
of their origin. Sick and insane patients were then
received as xvell as lepers. The establishment was
at once a hospital, a seminary, and a convent, and
ecclesiastics came here to make retreats. The great
Bossuet himself here prepared for ordination, and
2




26        THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
the walls of St.-Lazare frequently  afterward reechoed to his eloquence.
After long continuing the scene of the admirable
charities of St. Vincent de Paul and his successors,
the Rlevolution of 1789 came, and the house was
pillaged.  More than fonr hundred of the assailants
perished on this occasion, chiefly by drinking themselves to death in the cellars, or by poisoning themselves with the articles found in the pharmacy. The
place was gutted, and the admirable paintings which
adorned the refectory were carried off.  St.-Lazare
then became a prison.
In 1848 its gates were opened, and the greater
part of the prisoners set free.  The national workshops were then established on the ground-floor,
where those of the untried prisoners (dctenues) now
are.
In 1850 the cell formerly occupied by St. Vincent de Paul was erected into a chapel by  ionseigneur Sibour, Archbishop of Paris, as an inscription
in its sacristy testifies.




THE HOUSE OF ST.-LAZARE.
THE, house of St.-Lazare is built in the form of a
parallelogram, about four hundred and eighty feet
in length, by a hundred and fifty in width. Within
the enclosure are three large court-yards, each of
which is planted with trees and furnished with
benches, and contains a wash-house. The fil:st and
second courts are divicled, from  one another by a
large building containing, on the ground-floor, the
workshops of the prisoners, and on the upper floors
the cells which form their dormitories.  Between
the second and third court is the chapel of the inmates which connects the old portion of the building
with the infirmary of the second section. A road
skirts the walls of the house, so that vehicles may
pass to and fro for supplying the needs of the establishment. A wall, from fifteen to eighteen feet
in height, encloses the premises.
Two sentinels are on watch night and day, to
guard the approaches to the garden, which is situated between the building and the wall of the enclosure. The garden is one hundred and fifteen feet
long by sixty feet in width.
To the right of the road may be seen the prison
bakery. I visited it, and tasted the brown bread




28       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
given to the prisoners, and found it good. Each inmate has a right to call for seven hundred grammes,
or nearly twenty-five ounces of bread, per day.
The bread used for the sick and their attendants is
whiter than the ordinary bread.
Almost opposite the baklery stands the kitchen.
It is a very large room, and kept in the neatest manner. Five bright copper boilers stand upon an immense stove; the two largest will contain, each,
about two hundred and seventy gallons of soup.
They were preparing three large hampers of potatoes for the evening meal. I examined the meat
used to make soup for the sick, and found it of good
quality; and the vegetables seemed to be of the
most nutritious and wholesome kind. The depots
of supply for the Seine prisons are situated to the
left of the outer road.
The front portion of the prison, looking out upcn
the street, is exclusively occupied by the officers and
employes, with the exception of the ground-floor,
where are rooms used as depositories for the house
linen. The principal fa9ade is a hundred and twenty
feet long. These different buildings do not all date
from the same epoch. Those which surround the
first court-yard bear the date of 1681.
The officers of St.-Lazare are: a director, two
chaplains, five clerks, two house-physicians, a "brigadier," a "sous-brigadier," and ten "gairdliens," or
keepers. Nearly nine thousand inmates pass yearly
into St.-Lazare; the ordinary number of inmates at
any one time ranges from ten to twelve hundred.




THE HOUSE OF ST.-LAZARE.          29
The service of this establishment devolves upon
fifty-two religious, besides sixty female domestics,
and four "comnmissionllaires," or messengers, for the
needs of the inmates. In general, the keepers are
old soldiers; they do not penetrate the interior of
the establishment. The interior economy of the
house devolves entirely upon the sisters. Since the
religious of Marie-Joseph have been intrusted with
the charge of this prison —that is to say, for the last
fifteen years-two inmates only have succeeded in
escaping.  The first was employed in the nurses'
hall, andclhad been sent into the garden with some
empty bottles, when she climbed over the wall and
ran off; but at that time the walls were only nine
feet high, and have since been raised to eighteen.
The second simply walked out through a door-way
used by the sisters, and descended the stairs appropriated exclusively to officers of the house.
She wore a little bonnet and a shawl, so that she
very nearly resembled a workwoman. She told the
sister on duty that she had come in search of work,
that already she had been obliged to wait a long
time, and that she was going away, but that she
would return another day. The religious, suspecting
nothing, opened the door and let her out. In the
evening it was reported that one of the prisoners
had escaped. From that day to this no one has succeeded in evading the vigilance of the sister on
duty.
The objects received by the messengers for delivery to the prisoners, on the part of their friends




30       TIIE PRISONElRS OF ST.-LAZARE.
outside, are first examined by a sister, to insure that
nothing prejudicial to morals or discipline may obtain entrance. Sometimes the most ingenious devices are found to have been employed for evading
the vigilance of the examiners.
This morning one of the messengers delivered a
basket filled with all sorts of provisions, among
which were nuts, bread, pies, etc., etc. The nuts
were examined one by one; two among them appeared lighlter than the others, and on opening them
each was found to contain a little scrap of paper, on
which were written the answers to be given when
the time came for trial. The bread was next examined, in which not the least sign of an opening
could be discovered; but the sister, being advised to
break it open, found it to- contain a box, probably
introduced into the dough before baking, and cooked
with the bread, which was filled with writing-materials-pens, paper, and stamps-also a letter, the
style and autography of which are indescribable.
In the pie were found drugs, flowers, truffles, and a
phial of cologne-water. These objects, being of a
contraband character, were of course confiscated,
and the inmate for whom they were intended was
punished.




THE PRISON ROUTINE.
lMARIE, do you wish to know how the prisoners
pass the day?
In summer they rise at half-past five o'clock, and
in the winter at seven, or at daybreak. Each prisoner makes her own bed, but the domestics sweep
the cells. As soon as the prisoners are dressed,
each repairs to her own workshop. After singing a
hymn and reciting short prayers, they commence
work, which they continue without interruption until
the hour of breakfast. After breakfast they are allowed an hour's recreation.  Then they return to
their shops, where they work till dinner, after which
another hour of recreation succeeds, and then back
to their workshops.
The rosary is recited at five o'clock, and at the
end of each decade a couplet from a hymn is sung.
A sister selects from one of the books in the library
some interesting story, which is readc aloud twice a
day by one of the prisoners, for the benefit of all.
At night they say their prayers in the work-roors,
and in winter go to bedl at half-past seven, or in
summer at eight.  Ordinarily they undress in the
dark; however, some of the prisoners have candles,




32        THE PRISONERS OF ST..LAZARE.
but they are obliged to extinguish them at the expiration of ten minutes.
The cells are secured by enormous iron bolts.
The sister on duty in the corridor remains there for
half an hour after the prisoners have retired to bed.
By means of a little opening about eight inches
square, a view of the interior of each cell is obtained.
When any prisoner fails to observe the strict silence
which is prescribed, the sister taps lightly on the
door as a caution; if the disorder continues, she
makes a white cross on the door with a bit of chalk.
The next morning the sister on duty in the corridor
does not withdraw the bolts to doors distinguished
by this sign.  The offender is brought before the
superioress; if the infraction is not grave, she is
simply reproved, and sent to her workshop.
On the contrary, if the fault proves to be of a
serious naturle, the culprit is conducted " au rapport,"
or to the tribunal of St.-Lazare, where the chief of
administration presides, assisted by the superioress.
The sister on duty at the time the offence was
committed states the charges against the prisoner,
and the latter is heard in her defence, for no one is
punished without a hearing.  The chief of administration pronounces sentence, and the punishment is
more or less rigorous according to the nature of the
fault committed.  The offender never calls the sentence in question, and this would seem to prove its
entire justice.
The tribunal holds its sessions every morning at
nine o'clock. The prisoners stand in great awe of




THE PRISON ROUTINE.           33
this tribunal, and sometimes refuse to appear before
it, in which case the keepers are sent for to conduct
them by force. I heard one of the delinquents say
to a religious: "Punish me as much as you please,
but do not mention my faults to the mother superioress, and do not send me to the tribunal."
The most frequent punishment in St.-Lazare is
confinement in a dungeon; in rare cases a straitjacket is employed.




THE  GARDEN  OF ST.-LAZARE.
TnE garden of St.-Lazare is one of the most calm
and peaceful spots in Paris. It is a vast lawn, terminating in two enclosed gardens, with climbing
vines and hedges of lilac and other shrubbery, interspersed with splendid acacias, sycamores, and firuittrees, while the narrow stone walks are bordered
with thyme, box, and spring flowers; in fact, the
flowers of every season are cultivated here-the
peony, rose, lily, dahlia, etc.-all of which are destined only to ornament the altars of the Blessed
Virgin, which one meets with at every step in the
prison. At the extremity of the garden stands an
oratory, and in the middle is a reservoir whence
water is drawn for the plants.
The prisoners, under the supervision of a sister,
have the entire management of the garden, and consider it a favor to be allowed to come hither to
work. Here the air is very lure, and the birds seem
to sing their sweetest songs; the rays of the sun
play through the graceful branches of the trees, and
light up the modest flower-beds beneath. The ear
catches on one side the faint murmur of voices from
the interior of the prison, on the other the distallt
rumbling of the streets of Paris.




THE  GARDEN  OF ST.-LAZARE.                  35
With these exceptions, solitude reigns supreme,
and, indeed, delicious hours might be passed  here.
If it were possible to turn a deaf ear to  the  heavy
tread of the sentinel who keeps guard at the entrance
of the garden, the prison would be forgotten; and
could the distant sounds be shut out that indicate
the vicinity of the capital, Paris itself would not be
thought of.  Paris and the prison-the one the legitimate consequence of the other!  The following lines
would seem  to  sanction  the conjecture that Andre
Chenier and 3Idlle. Coigny often walked in the garden of St.-Lazare:
" A MiADEMIOISELLE DE COIGNY, Saint-Lazare.
"Blanche et douce colombe, ainmable prisonnibre,
Quel injuste ennemi te cache' la lumiire?
Je t'ai vue aujourd'hui (que le ciel 6tait beau!)
Te promener longtemps sur le bord du ruisseau;
Au hasard, en tous lieux, languissante, muette,
Tournant tes doux regards et tes pas et ta tote.
Cache dans le feuillage, et n'osant l'agiter,
D'un rameau sur un autre h peine osant sauter,
J'avais peur que le vent d6celat mon asilc.
Tout seul je g6missais, sur moi-mIOrme  immobile,
De ne pouvoir aller, le cicl etait si beau!
Promener avec toi sur le bord du ruisseau.
Car si j'avais ose, sortant de ma retraite,
Pr:'s de ta tete amie aller porter ma tete,
Avec toi murmurer et fouler sous mes pas
Le mOme pr6 foule sous tes pieds d6licats,
Mes ai!es et ma voix auraient frdmi de joie,
Et les noirs ennemis, les deux oiseaux de proie,
Ceos gardiens envieux qui te suivent toujours,




36        THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Auraient connu soudain que tu fais mes amours.
Tous les deux a l'instant, timide prisonniere,
T'auraient, dans ta prison, ravie A ]a lumiere,
Et tu ne viendrais plus, quand le ciel sera beau,
Te promener encor sur le bord du ruisseau."
ANDRE CHENIER,
I know not of what river Andre Chlenier speaks,
for there is in no part of the present garden the
slightest trace of a river. This is most likely a
poetic license.  If not, his imagination must have
construed the reservoir into a river.
In the garden all seemed like a summer dream.
The day was a warm  and lovely one, and I seated
myself on a bench at the foot of a tree, near the reservoir.  The beautiful acacias waved their feathery
branches above, almost concealing from  view  the
sombre walls of the prison.  A blackbird was whistling in the distance; an ant, at my feet, was laboriously struggling with a burden larger than itself;
a fluttering of wings in the lilac-hedge indicated a
bickering among the birds, and occasionally one
emerged and flew to the top of the reservoir.  Here,
dipping his little bill into the water, and raising his
head with the glistening drops in his half-open beak,
he perceives me and flies away. I closed my book
and almost ceased to think, giving myself up to the
peace and repose of this delightfnl solitude, this oasis
in the midst of suffering.
I do not know how long this reverie might have




THE GARDEN OF ST.-LAZARE.         37
lasted, had not the gate been quietly opened for the
ingress of some of the prisoners; there were ten of
them, each carrying a pail, with which they proceeded to replenish the reservoir from a fountain
close at hand. As they passed they saluted me
with a sad smile and a slight inclination of the head,
and I retiurned their salutation.
While they were at work, my attention was attracted particularly to one.  She wore, like the
others, a coarse blue dress and brown bonnet or
cap, but so much of her linen as was apparent was
evidently of the finest material. The border of her
skirt was trimmed with Valenciennes lace; her fine
white stockings half revealed the rosy tint of the
skin beneath, and covered a darling little foot enclosed in the daintiest of slippers. On looking at
her face I beheld a clear complexion, plump cheeks,
black hair, and eyes soft in their expression. She
passed with a timid air to empty her pail into the
basin, and then returned to the fountain.
I had my book raised, pretending to read, and, as
she passed me a second time with her burden, contemplated her without raising my head. She stopped
at a little distance from wthere I was seated, and, setting down her pail with an air of fatigue, drew a long
breath, and then began to rub with the left hand the
deep imprint left in the right by the iron handle of
the pail. I noticed that her hands were small and
transparently white, with the blue veins clearly perceptible through the skin, and that her rosy fingernails were carefully trimmed. Said I:




38       TIJE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
" You are tired, are you not?"
"Yes, madame."
"Very well, then; be seated."
"But where, madame?"
"Here, on this bench."
" Will you permit me?"
" Certainly."
She removed her pail from the middle of the
walk, and sat down on the farther end of the bench
I continued:
" Is it long since you came to St.-Lazare?"
"Eight days."
Have you still much longer to stay?"
"Fifteen days." 
"Are you unhappy here?"
"It would be supportable but for this costume,
which is frightful."
" Your costume, certainly, is not elegant."
"Oh, no! madame."
"It is a punishment, perhaps, for being too fond
of embroidered toilets. Does not your conscience
suggest this to you?"
" But, madame, it is so natural for a woman to
love dress."
"You find it so, do you?"
" Indeed I do. Why has Nature created us
beautiful if she did not intend we should correspondrt
with this gift in our manner of drless? For myself, I
declare frankly there is no greater happiness in this
world than to be able to dress well, and in good




THlE GARDEN OF ST.-LAZARE.        39
taste; my life has been passed in inventing fashions
and wearing them."
"Why?  That you may gain admiration from
others? "
To this she replied, ingenuously:
" With some view to the admiration of others, it
is true; but first of all that I may admire myself."
" Then it is the living a life of luxury that has
brought you to the condition you are in to-day?"
"Well, yes, madame; remotely, perhaps."
"So, from your ingenious capacity of inventing
fashions, you have descended to wearing the style
peculiar to St.-Lazare? "
At this remark she hung down her head.
"Well, tell me; how did you commence?"
" My family were possessed of but little, and my
dresses were made out of old ones, cleaned and made
over by myself. I was in despair because I was not
able to procure the thousand little trifles which became me so much, and I looked with envy upon the
elegant women who passed me in their carriages, or
on the magnificent display of rich fabrics in the shopwindows. When I was offered a handsome toilet,
I accepted; and the rest followed as a matter of
course. At first I felt my condition somewhat improved, but, the descent once begun, I fell still lower,
and now I know not how it will all end. Vanity
has been the ruin of me, as it has been of many
others."
"That is your belief, is it? " said I.
" Without doubt. You see how luxury and ex



40       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
travagance are blended with our manners; and it is
not too much to say that Paris runs riot in sumptuous living. What an array of gay toilets, of rich
laces —concealing uneasiness, debts, and ruin! In
our day all apparent differences in rank, of grades
in society, have disappeared; the fortunes of the
rich and the poor man seem to be confounded; all
dress alike. Go to the Bois de Boulogne, to the
races, to the theatres, and what is there to distinguish the honest woman from the one that is not?
Nothing. Again, what is there to distinguish a
lady of fortune from  one in comfortable circumstances only? Still nothing. The unbridled luxury
that envelops Paris, and all of France even, will,
perhaps, be the cause of ruining the world!"
Looking sternly at the woman, I said:
c This, then, is your opinion?"' Yes, madame."
"From what source do you gather your knowledge?  The women of your acquaintance? the
young people whose society you frequent? IDo you
believe, then, that honest women all continually run
to theatres and races? You are in error. This display is always made by the same women, whom
idleness, ennui, and the love of dissipation, bring
perpetually before the eyes of the public. Threefourths of them are more or less vitiated; the other
fourth is composed in part of rich ladies, who are
at least more able to pay for their toilets, and of
others in moderate circumstances, who impose upon
themselves privations of every kind, or perhaps incur




THE GARDEN OF ST.-LAZARE.         41
debt, in order to satisfy their vanity. This is a
grievous error, no doubt; but when will the day
come that honest women will see the necessity of
coming out from among their sisters, and dressing
themselves in tasteful simplicity, that they may not
be confounded with those who submit to luxury as
a necessity of their sad condition  "
"So you think, madame, that habits of luxury
are less general than are supposed?"' Yes: before criticising honest women, one
should know them."'It is true. I was wrong, and have spoken too
freely. Will you pardon me, madame?"
Just then her companions returned; she rose from
the bench, took her pail, and went to rejoin them.
Five minutes later the prisoners had returned to
their workshops. I was left alone in the garden,
but still the words of the young woman sounded in
my ears: "This unbridled luxury that envelops
Paris, and all of France even, will be the ruin of the
world, perhaps!"  I defended reputable women,
Marie; but are they indeed without reproach?
Who knows?  Perhaps this girl knew  better
than I.




THE "FILLES DES COURS."
IN crossing a corridor on the ground-floor, -I
stopped before a half-opened window to look out
upon the prisoners known as "les filles des cours,"
taking their recreation. This is the designation
given to those females who are registered (or licensed) by the police authorities, and are sent here
for infringing the rules laid down for the conduct
of this class on the street. They occupy the second
section. Within a few steps of the window, seated
on a bench, was one of these females busily engaged
in sewing; another comes to join her, and says:
"Ah! Zoe, what brings you back again to St.Lazare?"
"I was completely out at elbow, you must know
-no more money-no more hotel garni.  I halI
carried the remnants of my goods to my aunt"
(meaning the Mont-de-Pi't%), "and had now got to
my last gold-piece (jaunet).  So, said I to myself,
you must go to your country-house at St.-Lazare.
I made a rumpus, and tried to stir up the police;
but for three days they would take no notice of me.
I kept telling them that there were no vacant beds
(at least, none for me) in my chateau, and, at last,




THE " FILLES DES COURS."         43
they grabbed me, and here I am. And you, what
brought you here? 
"I made a night of it, and Thomas Folichon
paid for the champagne even to his last piece of a
hundred sous. I drank too much-I staggered, and
went zigzag, and, oh! the streets of Paris are so
narrow!"
"So you were fool enough, after drinking champagne, to go and walk on the Boulevards? "
"That's so -confound it! I don't know how it
was, but I fell asleep, and on waking I recognized
my old home, the office of the Conciergerie; there
I got a month in prison for one night's frolic on the
streets. But why do you break your back working? 9"
" I have not one sou; and one must have money
here to pay for the glass of wine (gobette) from the
canteen."
"But you will have your fingers pricked like a
seamstress; andl perhaps people will think you an
honest woman."
The two prisoners who were talking  in this
manner wore the uniform of St.-Lazare-the dress
of blue serge, and the little black cap of the section, only the one standing up wore a superb underskirt of red cashmere, trimmed with black velvet,
whllich formed a train below her prisoner'S dress; in
her ears she wore coral pendants, and her cap was
set upon her head in a fanciful manner. This unique
toilet was completed by wooden shoes, of the costume of the house. Zo6 lay down her work for a
moment to inspect her companion.




44       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"They have not taken away your skirt, Sophie?
Faith, it is very coquettish, but your shoes are a
devilish contrast."
"I wore here loves of shoes; but, when a poor
woman was leaving yesterday without any, I told
her to take my shoes (bichons), and that is the last
of them."
"W~ell, do you like it here?"'" Not much: befbre, we used to have good times,
but now there is no way of amusing one's self. The
sisters vex one so; they make us get down upon our
knees, and compel us to go to mass; and, even if we
do not listen to the sermon, one cannot help hearing
a little. Last Sunday I cried like a fool."
"Now, don't go to the convent, like Mlalaine."
"Well, that's better than to die a bietle " (lower
even than the filles des cours) "like Fifine."
Upon which the foolish creature left, humming a
song. I have given you, dear Marie, some idea of
the style of conversation in this section, and I am
sure it is as distasteful to you as it is to me.
The greater number of those belonging to this
section are young girls, but there are others who are
very old. I spoke to a passing domestic, and asked
her:
"Why are these old women shut up here?"
She answered:
" Madame, there are several such here, but of
different classes.  Do you see, yonder, that tall
woman, very well appearing, with gray hair?"
" Yes."




THE "FILLES DES COURS."             45
"Very well; she is what they call a procurezuse."
"What, pray, is a procuretcse? "
"It is a woman who plays the part of a great
lady; introducing herself into poor families where
interesting young girls may be found; giving aid
to the parents and articles of dress to the daughter,
and then passing herself off as a generous protectress, or even a lady patroness, but always as a rich
woman.  She assumes the exterior of respectability,
and, in fact, can play any rdle. She is unceasing in
her attentions until the time comes for her to fulfil
her commission for the old debauchee into whose
hands she finally places her prize. - The authorities
watch these characters well, and when detected
they are severely punished; but sometimes they
mnanage to escape notice."
I think, Marie, that all charitable ladies should
be furnished with letters from  the priest of their
parish before going to visit a poor family for the
first time. If every one were to go fortified in this
manner, the procuress would not be able to pass
herself off as a patroness.
[The author goes on to describe two other classes
of bad women to be found in this section-the coqueuses and the mnarcheuses —in regard to whom it
would be discreet to omit particulars.]
How sad this all is! Fathers and mothers of
families little suspect the dangers their children run
in this wicked capital.
Whenever a "fille des cours" grossly violates
the police code which regulates her class, she is ar



46        THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
rested and taken to the office of the Conciergerie.
I-ere the Sisters of Marie-Joseph have been lately
introduced to receive such prisoners.  The following
day the girl is taken to St.-Lazare.  The carriage
used for this purpose is a kind of omnibus, painted
black and yellow.  On their arrival here the prisonels' namres are entered on the register, and they are
searched in the "Vestiaire."  They are very desirous of retaining their jewels, and, in order to do so,
often conceal them in their stockings, or in the tucks
of their dresses, so that they may not be taken from
them.
The first night, they sleep in a large hall, situated
on the ground-floor, just beside the shops.  This
hall contains about twenty or thirty beds.  They
are carefully guarded, and generally sleep in the
clothing they wore on entering'; at least, no bedclothing is provided here.
The next day, after undergoing inspection by
the doctors, some are sent to the infirmary and
others to the workshops, first changing their dress
for the costume of the prison.  The inmates of the
first section (the deitenues) are not subjected to this
chlange of costume, but continue to wear their own
clothing until after trial or conviction.  When they
enter the house, they are also immediately assigned
their cells, instead of passing a night in the hall before mentioned. The filles des cours are not disorderly in St.-Lazare; generally they are quiet and
docile.  I overheard two of them talking, and one
says to the other:




TEE "FILLES DES COURS."            47
" My deal, I believe there is a Supreme Being."
" Why do you make that reflection?"
" Because, when we are on the streets, it takes
sometimes two or three sergents de ville to arrest
us, but at St.-Lazare one little sister is sufficient to
march us in battalion order."
The other replied:
Y"ou are right; there must be a Supreme Beino.'"




THE "'FILLE DE JOIE."
A STORM arose suddenly while I was in the
chapel. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and
when I desired to return to my room it was raining
in torrents; the outside road was inundated and in
no condition to use; the interior corridors were
crowded by the "filles des cours," who at that time
were taking their recreation. I had not the courage to go that way and encounter them, and in order to pass the time I entered into conversation
with the sister on guard before the entrance to their
hall, and we took turns at looking through the little
opening that gave a view of the long corridors.
There were present fully three hundred prisoners,
and a cloud of smoke floated over their heads. I
spied in the angle of a, window a young woman,
small, thin, and pale, smoking a cigarette; the sister
on service within the corridor advanced toward her;
the latter perceived her and concealed her cigarette,
lighted as it was, in the pocket of her apron, and
joined a group near by. I had a full view of her
face; her great black eyes, lighting up her pale
visage, gave her an air of wonderful energy; she
spoke with vehemence, and laughed loudly, but,
when the sister had gone away, she again took out




THE "FILLE DE JOIE."           49
her cigarette, returned to her former place, and
commenced smoking anew.  I said to the religious:
"What is the name of that pale girl near the
window, who smokes so vigorously?"
She looked through the little door, and replied:
"It is Euphrasie —a singular creature; not ungovernable, but whimsical and capricious; sometimes overcome with sadness, sometimes turbulently
gay-"
" You appear to know her well? "
"Yes; she is an habitude of St.-Lazare."
" I should like to see her nearer."
The sister opened the door which separated us
from the inmates, and made a sign to one of them,
who came toward us.
" I want to see Euphrasie," said she.
Euphrasie threw away her cigarette and approached. The sister said to her:
4' Euphrasie, will you talk a little with the lady?"
" I don't care if I do."
I led her into the sacristy, and seated myself at
an oak table before the window. Euphrasie took a
stool a few steps from me.
" 3y child, how old are you? 
"Twenty-two years."
"And you are an inmate here?'
"Yes."
" Have you been here often? "
"Oh, yes! I began my course early."
"Are you happy? "
3




50       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
At this she arose quickly and proceeded to the
door.'6You are curious, madame; you wish to know
too much."
I stopped her.
" Now, Euphrasie, do not go yet."
She returned, and, surveying me from head to
foot, said:
"After all, what is it to you whether we are
happy or unhappy? You are not a woman of our
kind; do not concern yourself about us."
I made a sign for her to sit down, and said:
"Who was the means of bringing you to this
condition?'"
A flash of anger lit up her eyes as she replied:
" Sly father. I was thirteen years old, and at
fourteen I had already left my mother."
She seated herself: an agonized expression passed
over her features.
"If you could know, madame, the miseries, the
privations, of that wretched life-the days without
food, the nights without shelter, the ill-treatment,
the insults, the contempt I have endured, and the
dangers that I have run i "
" Tile dangers? WVhat kind of dangers? "
" I have been on the point, several times, of meeting a violent death. One day I had been drinking,
for I drank, madame, as almost all the girls of my profession do. I accidentally went into a basement wineshop; men, half-drunk, were seated around a long,
dirty table, covered with cards and empty bottles. I




THE "FILLE DE JOIE."            51
seated myself among them; they offered me liquor,
and I drank again. The smoke of the gas and of
their pipes, and the alcohol I drank, made me completely tipsy. It was eleven o'clock at night. The
master of the house came to close up his shop, when
a man sleeping upon the corner of a table woke and
recognized me.'Look,' said he to his comrades,'here is- Euphrasie, the courtezan; a fine lot, upon
my word.'' She is a fille de joie,' replied another;'then she belongs to us; what shall we do with
her?' Whereupon they all rose up, made a circle
around me, and deliberated upon what disposition
to make of me. Little by little their hideous, besotted faces became ferocious; one of them, solemnly
extending his hand, said,' Let us hang her.'
"These words suddenly brought me to my senses,
and, comprehending the whole danger of my position,
a shudder rall through me. I had some money upon
my person; making an excuse to stoop down, I
slipped it in my shoes. As I raised my eyes I saw
that they had all taken off their cravats, and were
tying them  together to make a halter.'Where
shall we hang her?' said one of them.'To the gaspipe,' said another,'we can see her better there.' I
screamed; the master of the house ran in; there was
a quarrel-a scuffle; I was struck; and the bottles
began to fly around.
"I was wounded in the head; the sight of my
blood flowingr increased their fury.' We must finish
her,' vociferated another.' Yes; at least, unless the
girl pays her ransom.''I have gold; I will pay for




52       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
drink for you!' exclaimed I.' Gold! gold!' shrieked
the men. They searched me, but found nothing.'If you will spare my life you shall have gold,' I
repeated.'She lies; she has none. Let us hang
her!' I took off my shoes, and hastily drew forth
several louis d'or.
"At this their drunken eyes brightened up, and
they rushed upon me, snatched it away, and began
to drink again. The proprietor of the shop profited
by this diversion to open a little door, and thrust
me outside. I was safe, and at liberty; but the
wind and cold of the night penetrated me. I staggered along for some minutes, and then crouched in
the corner of a carriage-way, and fell into a stupor.
"At the break of day I came to myself; my
clothing was besmeared with mud, and stained with
wine; I was in great suffering, and, when I recalled
the events of the past night, I hated myself. I resolved to put an end to my life, and slowly made
my way toward the Seine. The rays of the rising
sun shone upon the river; a tree upon the road beside it swayed its green branches in the morning
wind; the sky was clear, and silence reigned around,
for the city was still asleep. I seated myself on the
bank; only a step separated me from the stream,
and I paused to think.
" I looked back upon my infancy, the miserable
life I had led, my present situation; and, putting all
together, my disgust for life returned with redoubled
force. I saw myself disgraced, humbled, despised;
I wondered how the sun could bless me with its




THE "FILLE DE JOIE."            53
light, or the winds salute me with their breath; I
shed tears of agony; my feelings became too desperate for resistance; I arose, and with one bound
precipitated myself into the Seine.  The waters
whirled and eddied as they carried me down; I remembered no more."
Euphrasie, on finishing her recital, glided from
the stool to the floor and sat there, her eyes fixed
and motionless, and her lips parted with an expression of horror; she seemed overwhelmed with
her feelings. "And this," said I to myself, regarding
her with amazement, " this is one whom society, with
dreadful irony, calls a'fille de joie."'"  Words failed
me, and silent tears flowed from my eyes. Euphrasie, recalled to herself, looked at me.' You weep, madame."
" Yes."
" And why?"
"I weep for you."
She reseated herself upon the stool, and continued:
" Happy would it have been for me if I had died
— but I did not. A dog came to my rescue, and
held me up to the surface; I was picked up and put
into a boat, and a sergent de ville brought me to the
police office. I was a yflle isolde then, but I have
borne a heavier burden since."
"Are the filles isolees more free, then?"
" Not much more, madame; they cannot go out
when they please, nor can they go where they please.
A girl of our class is a prisoner in Paris. The




54       TiHE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
boulevards, the public squares, the promenades, and
the quays, are forbidden us; the Chalmps Elyseies,
with their gardens and beautiful trees, we are not
allowed to enter. I have been arrested at least ten
times in the Champs Elysees. Sometimes the temptation proved too much for me; when I have not
seen the green grass for a long time, nothing can
restrain me from sitting for an hour or two in
the shade, and for this I get a month in St.-Lazar e."
Meanwhile the storm  continued, the wind blew
in gusts, the rain beat against the window-panes; it
tihundered heavily, and a flash of lightning illuminated the sacristy. Euphrasie trembled, made the
sign of the cross, and bowed her head.
"MIadame, it is terrible to hear the thunder, but
it is beautiful, it is grand  "
She drew from the pocket of her dress a little
bag of tobacco and some paper, and busied herself
with making a cigarette. She appeared to have forgotten the storm, the thunder, and even my presence.
" Euphrasie," said I, " why do you smoke?"
She adroitly slipped her finished cigarette into
her sleeve.
"Pardon me, madame, I forgot. I smoke, that
is a fact; to smoke is my greatest happiness. In
the houses where we live, we are not permitted to
go out but once in fifteen days; it is a great while
to. be without seeing the sun. When I get tired of
my confinement, I seat myself upon the floor, or




THE " FILLE DE JOIE."           55
upon a cushion, and smoke all day long; then I have
waking dreams; I seem to see the country, tihe hills,
the green grass, and, above all, the pure, limpid, blue
lake. I was not made for the life that I lead; when
I think too much, despair turns my brain; then I
drink, sing, do every thing to forget myself; if I
did not do this, I should kill myself"
" Euphrasie, you must not think of dying; think
of living as an honest woman."
"Your advice, madame, is very good. There is
no woman who does not wish to be so; it is such a
fine thing to be an honest women. Ah! if they
themselves only knew their own value!  I have
sometimes shed bitter tears, when, through a halfopened window (for the glass in ours is roughened,
and we cannot see through it into the street), I have
seen an honorable woman saluted on the street as
she passed."
"Then try to become one yourself."'
" I should like to, but I cannot. Our lives are
passed in dissipation. We go into a house, we
drink, we dine, and lead_ a gay life; one month after
we have neither money nor clothes; every thing belongs to the mistress of the house, of whom we hire
our dresses. We are in debt, and sometimes we are
slaves as long as we live."
"What a shame!"
"I think there is nothing in society that is more
disgoraceful."
The sister now came to give us notice that the
hour of recreation was over. I drew from my pocket




56       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
a rosary, and wound it around the arm of Euphrasie.
saying:'Promise me that you will keep this, and that
you will sometimes recite it; perhaps God will draw
you out of this abyss."
"I will, madame; thank you. I shall always remember that you have shed tears of pity over a poor
flle dcejoie."
Then she slowly withdrew.
I felt my heart bursting with inexpressible a gony;
I turned again toward the entrance, and looked
through the little grated opening. Euphrasie was
running from one group to another; never had she
been more gay; her laughter was heard above all
the voices in the hall. The sister said to me:
" I cannot comprehend why Euphrasie leaves you
in so gay a humor."
"I understand," returned I; a" she wishes to forget, but I shall not forget her."
Tell minutes later all the " girls of the street 
were at work in their shops, and silence reigned
through the long corridors they had just quitted.
I experienced a sort of dread in traversing them;
the atmosphere suffocated me, and I hastened to an
open door that I might breathe the fresh air. The
rain had ceased, some light clouds passed rapidly
across the sky, and the blue heavens reappeared;
the birds were sporting among the dripping branches
of the trees, and shaking the moisture from their
wings. The storm had passed from the sky, but the
tempest of my heart was not quieted, Marie.




THE "FILLE DE JOIE.'"          5
To what a frightful study I have condemned myself for your sake! How I suffer! I had a fever
that night, and all the " filles de joie" seemed to be
invading my chamber, and delivering themselves up
to mad revelry. A shower of gold rained around
them, and fell with a hollow sound into the mud
that they were piling up around me. Suddenly one
of the girls from the infirmary, pale and attenuated,
appeared at my door; she advanced slowly and
gained my bedside. In spite of the desperate efforts
I made, I could not repel her nor escape her icy
touch. In short, I suffered the most dreadful nightmare I ever experienced in my life.  0 Marie,
how terrible a thing is vice! What defilement does
it not leave in its train!
August 10th.
Dear Marie, the condition of woman is at present
creating great interest in the minds of the reflecting
portion of society. If God had placed me in an influential position, through fortune, rank, or talents, I
would have been willing to consecrate my life to the
amelioration of my sex, but, in the modest sphere
to which I am limited, I can do nothing. At the
same time the character of woman has been my
life-long study.  3Iy opportunities for observing
women in every class of society have been extraordinary.
You know I lived a long time in the country,
where I was able to examine at my leisure the life
of the peasantry in their frugal homesteads. In the




58       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
city 1 have carefully studied the life of the workingwomen, as also the life of women in the middle
classes, and finally of those of the higher classes.
There was one class that I could not know at all,
and that I lhad never tried to know-Tthe class of
fallen women. The thought of their very existence
was dreadful to me.  When but the words "lost
woman" were pronounced in my hearing, I hung
my head in confusion, as if the shame of a portion
must fall upon the whole sex. I asked myself often,
do they still merit the name of women? I answered,
no; they have become I know not what; of whom
Bossuet says, "They have not a name in any language."
Very well, dear friend, Providence took me by
tile hand and led me into St.-Lazare! A Bd, when I
saw myself in the presence of vice, I experienced a
feeling of repulsion I cannot describe; I revolted at
the thought of breathing the same air with the guilty
ones. Even in loolking upon them from a distance
I trembled; for several days I contended against
my feelings, but without being able to overcome my
disgust.
One day the superior said laughingly to me:
"IDecidedly you are afraid of the inmates; you
must see them near, once, and all that feeling will
pass away."
She took my arm in hers, and we visited all the
halls, all the shops, and all the infirmaries. At first
I saw nothing, so greatly was I agitated. The inmates saluted us, I returned the salutation; then,




THE "FILLE DE JOIE."            59
when I presumed to look upon them, little by little
my curiosity resumed sway. I studied them. After
my return from this lengthened inspection of every
species of misery, degradation, and suffering, my
fears gave place to excessive pity.  I may say,
Miarie, that I have now come to know all classes and
conditions of the female sex, and I do not hesitate
to declare that the happiest condition of all, in my
view, is that of the country-woman.
If the peasant-woren only knew the advantages
their humble position possesses, would they ever
consent to leave their country-homes and come to
live in a crowded city? You know as well as I that
a cottage in the country is far preferable to the antechambers or kitchens of Paris. These pretty cabins,
with their tiled roofs, are the abodes of peace. I-low
many times I have rested under these calm  and
rustic roofs! On my approach the dog barks to give
notice; on recognizing me, the children come running out to meet me, the dclog ceases to bark, while
the mother of the family makes haste to finish feeding her chickens, in order to prepare for me the best
chair her humble cot affords.
Sometimes it is the hour for the family meal; on
a bare table is arranged the great brown earthen
platter, filled with smoking vegetables.  What appetites have the cottagers!  Htow savory is the'bread of this little quiet home after the labors of the
day! While the good man eats his dinner, the busy
housewife arranges and commands; here she is in
her element. She chases out the chicken that has




60       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
the boldness to enter to take part in the repast by
picking up the crumbs that fall from the table, or
caresses the dog who is smelling the bread in the
child's hands.
Only to think that a young girl of sixteen should
so early become dissatisfied with her cottage-home,
and turn her face toward the city, where bright
ribbons and crosses of gold dazzle her sight!
Now let us trace the history of this little peasantgirl. In this humble, whitewashed cabin, encircled
by creeping vines, she was born. Her mother nourished her at her own bosom, and guided her first
steps over the greensward which surrounds their
homestead. The favorite companion of her plays
was this dog, the faithful guardian of her humble
home. At six years of age she already assists her
mother in the labors of the house; she carries the
bundle of grass to the white goat which has so often
supplied her with sustenance. At ten years she
superintends the family meals, and goes into the
forests in search of dry wood to replenish the fire on
the modest hearth. At twelve, after being prepared
by the pious village pastor, she makes her first communion.
Then commences her life of real labor.  She
weeds the garden, gathers together the vegetables
already dug up, and begins to earn her daily bread.
At fifteen comes the season of youthful pleasures,
and she takes part inthe gay dances of her female
companions, who meet together every Sunday during the beautiful summer months; or during the




THE " FILLE DE JOIE."            61
long winter evenings, seated by the cheerful fire, she
listens to the recital of some fearful or amusing
story. This happy period continues, until one day,
at a turn in a path bordered with hawthorn, a young
man of the village, whom she has several times
avoided meeting, directly encounters her, and, resolutely intercepting her, says:
" I wish to be married; will you be my wife?"
She is betrothed. The conjugal nest is prepared.
At the time fixed upon she becomes a happy and
chaste spouse. Children come, one after the other,
to enliven their humble home; she caresses them,
brings them up, and establishes them in life. Finally,
she settles into a peaceful old age. It is true that
in this calm life there are some stormy days, and
there are inclement seasons, when hail destroys the
harvests. Even so; but where is there a life without
suffering, especially for a woman? I know of no
exceptions.
Is the female of the laboring class in cities as
happy?  I think not.  Her birthplace is an attic.
There the summer heats are suffocating, the cold of
winter is intense. Life is supported with difficulty;
the bread with which the child is supplied is earned
by the sweat of the mother's brow, and has often to
be even measured out. At twelve the child is already wearily at work in the shop at which she is
apprenticed.  At sixteen she is a finished workwoman, and labors all day, and sometimes a part of
the nigrht, to procure the mere necessaries of life.
Her business almost always brings her in contact




62       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
with the rich and the well-to-do, the contrast making
her feel her own poverty all the more keenly. She
next becomes a wife and mother. The salary of her
husband is insufficient to give bread to her children,
Together with the cares of maternity and those of
the household, she is subject to the unceasing demands of labor. What has she not to suffer should
sickness, want of work, or the misconduct of her
husband, bring misery to their garret?
The women of the middle classes ordinarily enjoy the period of youth. It is true that they are
for the most part obliged to submit, at that time of
life, to the captivity of the convent or the boardingschool, where they have long lessons, and are obliged
to study, and must, besides, be separated from their
mothers and be cut off from their homes. The peasant and the work-women at least keep their children
with them; the well-to-do mother believes it her
duty to confide her daughter to the hands of strangers.
This is a terrible evil, the most pernicious error
of our time; an error that brings about the unhappiness of the greater part of our young girls. In establishments for public instruction children forget
all family ties, they learn nothing of interior management, of house-keeping, and adapt themselves to
no regular pursuit in life. When they leave the
boarding-school, their knowledge is limited to a little
orthography and a superficial idea of history. They
play the piano tolerably, but nothing is known thoroughly, and consequently no useful result is obtained.




THE " FILLE DE JOIE."             63
If the young person is rich, or has fortune sufnicient to invite a husband, she will lmake but an indifferent mistress of a house. If she has no marriage
portion she will not marry at all, that is certain, and
her position is a sad one.  As she has no establishment, she is without resources for the future.  So
long as she is young, gay, and fond of amusement,
she will enliven the house of her parents, and at first
all will foo well.
But the time will come when she will perceive
that she is destined to become an old maid. Her
parents will also, as years advance, look upon her as
a burden. Then embarrassments will arise, and
somne day the father will signify to his daughter
that she must earn her own living; this intimation
will fill her heart with sadness and bitterness.  If,
by chance, she be a person of intelligence and energy,
she will become an assistant teacher, lady's com1panion, or clerk in a store.  If neither of these occupations is suited to her capacity, what will become
of her?  It is impossible to say; perhaps her destiny
will be to pass through St.-Lazare: I have seen such
cases here.
Do not tell me that I exaggerate, 3Iarie, for what
I say is too true.  Nor should you accuse me of being too severe upon the father of the family.  ]No;
I do not blame hln for his course; it is natural. See
the animals; they nurse their young, they find a
shelter for them, and defend them  from  harm; but
when they have matured, even the mother refuses
to recognize them any longer.




64       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
When I was a child I had a white cat that I
loved very much, because she showed so much affection for her little ones. When her kittens were too
numerous it was necessary to use every imaginable
precaution in taking any from her, and after doing
so we had to hear her mournful cries for two or three
days. She never quitted the two that were left her,
night or day, and we were even obliged to carry her
food to her; she licked her little kittens, caressed
them, and carried them by the neck into the open
air, and, when they first commenced to eat, she
would not touch the milk-soup that was prepared
for them. Could devotion be greater?  Very well,
when these little kittens were old enough to dispense with the care of a mother she neglected them;
and when they were well grown she would not even
look at them; she boxed them, and bit them, and
battled with them to such a degree, that, to restore
peace, we were obliged to give the young ones
away.
Do not allege, my friend, that this isolated fact
signifies nothing; it signifies much, because the lesson is repeated throughout Nature.
Do not reproach me, either, for comparing man
with the animals. MIan is very superior to them, no
doubt: he is possessed of reason, and this is whly he
sometimes supports his children as long as he lives;
it is no longer the paternal instinct which guides
him in this, it is duty and reason.
I contend that it is necessary to change the system of education for girls of the middle classes, that




THE " FILLE DE JOIE."           65
is, for the daughters of merchants, of artists, of civil
officers, of physicians, and even of nobles of small
means; for all such, in fact, as are to receive an ordinary education and no more. As to young ladies
belonging to the higher classes, I wish to say but
little, because they form the exception, and I only
pretend to study the masses. It is necessary, no
dcoubt, that a princess should be educated for her
own particular sphere. At the same time, would it
not be better to cast a glance into the future, in
order to be prepared for reverses of fortune? In
this age of social changes, there is no one that can
say to himself, " I am perfectly secure from misfortune."  Sovereigns have been seen giving lessons in
mathematics, and noble ladies making shoes as a
means of living in a strange land. I am persuaded
in my own mind that every woman ought to be
brought up to some special calling.
Allow me, Marie, to draw my conclusions. The
condition of the peasant-woman is the happiest, because she possesses in abundance all the essentials
of comfort; she should be persuaded to remain in
the country, and to continue in that state of life.
The work-woman labors much and earns but little;
work that will prove the most remunerative should
be found for her, so that her life may be a less painful one. The girls of the middle classes receive inadequate education; incomplete, in that it does not
secure to them resources for the future. Firstly,
they should be brought up at home; secondly, they
should be given a position.




6o6     1THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
August 12th.
It is a great creation, that of woman; I never
more fully comprehended this truth than yesterday.
I was seated in the chapel, in meditation before the
statue of the Blessed Virgin; I said to myself:
" Christianity has not only regenerated woman, but
has also revealed to us her true greatness, Catholicism has admirably symbolized her in the Virgin
Mother, whom she has placed upon her altars. She
is a virgin, that is to say, all that is beautiful and
pure in Nature; something uncontaminated by man,
and unsullied by his touch; an atmosphere that is
not tainted by the impure, the brilliant azure of the,
firmament unobscured by clouds; the sweet perfutme of flowers that no human being has drunk in;
the delicate velvet of ripe fruit that has never lost
its freshness by contact.
" She is a mother, that is to say, perfection in the
moral order, hers is the power that gives life, the
tenderness that sweetens it, the devotion that sustains it, and the memory which endures long after
the life of the loved one is swallowed up in death.
She is a mother who ceases not to be a virgin; and
is thus an ideal of the infinite. As a woman, she is
without stain, even in her maternity; great by her
conformity to the Divine will, her greatness is not
lessened through the child given to her womb, and
whom she nourishes at her own breast. She retains
the grace of virginity, while she wields the power
of a mother. Such is the woman, as Christianity
sets her before us in the person of her whom all




TEE "FILLE DE JOIE."            67
generations shall call blessed. Such is woman as I
comprehend her."
And now, Marie, what has man made of this
chosen creature? During long centuries of barbarism, he has caused her to bend under a disgraceful
slavery, rendering her, in fact, the slave of slaves,
wounding her delicate members by confinement in
hateful bonds, exhausting her strength by burdens
too heavy for her weakness to endure.
Do you believe her situation better to-day, because man flatters while he ruins her?  Ah! that
you could be witness, as I am, to the tears, the
nights of sleeplessness, the despair of the unhappy
one who has been led astray from the path of rectitude, her nature perverted, her honor sacrificed,
a sulfering, abandoned, despised creature, who has
nothing to expect in the future but misery and
shame! Why?  Because she has given herheart,
and surrendered her virtue to a wretch. When
once the breath of impurity has tarnished her soul,
she is changed from her former self, her evil instincts
are developed, guilty thoughts take possession of
her mind, and vice reigns in her heart. She exclaims, like the reprobate represented in Scripture,
"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."
She revels in the basest criminality, rushes
madly into bacchanalian orgies, until, at twenty
years of agre, pale, disfigured, and worn out, she
seeks the bed of a hospital. To her, there. is no
more any thing lovely or pure in creation; her
breath vitiates the air; her hand withers the flowers,




68       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
her appearance even is frightful to the pure woman.
No refuge exists but one, the mercy of God, ever
lending hope to the penitent. Oh, how often I
have seen them weep in presence of the sanctuary!
I have trembled with fear, and my heart has been
moved to deepest pity at the spectacle. Marie, if
God had given me eloquence, I would cry aloud
to all my sex: "0  woman, avoid the declivity that
conducts to these fatal paths; from the moment
the first evil step is taken, you will rapidly descend
to the depths of the abyss!  The poisoned cup is
wreathed with flowers, the descent is decorated
with foliage, as green shrubbery is placed around
tombs, to veil the corruption within."  But, ah! my
voice is weak and impotent, and will not be heeded,
and it is left to me alone to profit by the dreadful
lesson before me.
Aufgust 13t7.
The sky is so blue this morning, dear Marie, that
it seems to me I once more look upon the sky of our
own Provence, the sun shines brilliantly and the air
is soft; my joyous little swallows describe large
circles in their flight, and then return, with hasty
curve of the wing, to their little ones. The prisoners are taking their recreation; they appear to me
gayer than usual. The imagination of woman is so
susceptible, one ray of the sun is sufficient to make
her forget her suffering! God has been good to
her in giving her the faculty of forgetting quickly,
for her destiny is (happy as she may sometimes appear to be) to suffer much.




THE REFECTORY.
I HAlVE paid a visit to the Refectory, without
doubt the most beautiful hall in St.-Lazare.  It is
the same that the Lazarist fathers used before the
Revolution, and affords space for nearly two hundred persons at table.  The entablature of the door
is richly sculptured, and under the present administration a tesselated floor has been laid. The refectory is on the ground-floor, and has on the right
tell windows, overlooking the road around the house,
and six openings on the second court. Twelve long,
unpainted tables, placed in three rows, and surrounded by benches, form the furniture of the room.
Nine pillars running down in the centre of the hall
support the ceiling. Two large stoves warm this
vast room. A crucifix, with a Christ of the size of life,
is suspended upon the wall above the estrade, or
small raised platform, occupied by the sister whose
duty it is to preside here.  She recites the Benedicite * in a loud voice, and silence reigns during the
meal.
The domestics were setting the table when I
entered. Each prisoner has a porringer with tinnediron spoon, etc. Some metal cups, and a pitcher of
* The first word of the grace said at meals in a religious house.




TO       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
the same material, are placed in the centre of the
table.'The pitcher contains water, the ordinary
drink of the inmates; but if they prefer a glass of
wine they can procure it by paying fifteen centimes,
or one cent and a half, and this is what is called a
gobette. The prisoners bring their own bread to
table, it being distributed to them every morning in
the workshops.
They take two meals a day, and go to the refectory by divisions; breakfast is served from eight
o'clock to ten, and dinner from two to four. In the
morning, they have vegetable soup, and on Thursdays and Sundays meat-soup. Their fare at dinner
is invariably as follows: On Sundays, beef and dried
peas; Mondclay, red beans; Tuesday, rice; Wednesday, potatoes; Thursday, beef and pulse; Friday,
white-beans; Saturday, potatoes. The vegetables
are coolied in fat. The prisoners rarely finish their
meals in the refectory; almost all are supplied with
a brown-earthen porringer, and they carry their
food with them into the court-yard, and terminate
the meal during the time of recreation.
Audest 15 t1.
I have taken a particular fancy, my dear, to one
of the young prisoners. I met with her in the infirmary of the first section. She was seated upon
her bed, and her flaxen hair floated around her
pretty face, giving it a sweet but sad. expression.
I asked her name. She told me it was Valentine.




THE REFECTORY.               71
She appears very timid; every time I spoke to her,
she blushed, then grew pale, then wept; however, I
never passed through the room without saluting
her. Yesterday, as I was leaving her, she raised
my hand to her lips and kissed it. It occurred to
me, for the first time, to inquire of the sister the
cause of her detention, for I could not imagine what
misconduct this frail, sweet creature could be guilty
of. The sister replied:
"' She is a criminal, madame; she is accused of
infanticide."
I was thunderstruck.
" How, this young girl a mother, and the murderess of her child?"
" Yes, madame."
I was deeply saddened at this information. I
asked myself how it was possible for such a creature
to be so cruel. I approached the bed.
"Valentine," said I, "I know that you are good,
and I love you, but you have suffered much; you
will tell me your history, will you not? "
She bowed her flaxen head in her hands, and replied:
" Never, madame, I could not. You would despise me, perhaps, and abandon me, and your kindness has done me so much good."
"Despise you, my child?  Do not believe it.
I wish only that your unhappiness may prove
a warning  to others. You promise me, do you
not?"
She looked at me through her tears.




T12      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"If you wish, madame, I will take courage to
relate to you my sad history."
"I will return to-morrow, and you will tell me
all."
"Yes, madame."
I left her, but was tormented all day by the
thought, How at her age could one have thus lost
sight of the duty of a woman, and a mother? Her
history will reveal all.
To-day I went to pay my promised visit to
Valentine. She turned very pale on seeing me.
Her bed is placed in a corner of the room, and the
neighboring beds were empty. The sick who were
able to walk were grouped together at the extremity of the room, and we were alone. I seated myself beside her cot upon a stool, and took one of her
hands in mine, saying to her:
" My poor child, I am ready to hear what you
have to say."
She answered me sadly:
"You alone shall know the whole truth, madame; to tell you it shall be my expiation."
I sat silent, and she began.




THE INFANTICIDE.
"I WAS born in a little village in Normandy.
My father was a landholder who owned a good
property, lived happily, and was held in esteem by
his neighbors. I was his only child, and, until I was
seven years of age, I lived at home. MIy mother
loved me with a blind affection, and shed bitter
tears when it became necessary for us to part; for
the vanity of my father induced him to send me to
the best boarding-school in the neighboring village,
so that I might be made a lady of.
"In this school I remained until I was fifteen.
I was quick, and learned rapidly, so that, when I
returned home, my parents found their fondest expectations realized. 1ly father's establishment now
struck me as being very contracted, and his manners as unpolished, but, as my heart was not bad,
and my judgment was upright, I endeavored to
adapt myself to my circumstances.
"I suffered, however, for a taste had been cultivated in me for elegances; the arts and literature
attracted me, the manners of elegant peoples captivated me.  I concealed my unhappiness, but I
created an ideal world, and lived in that.
"I had been betrothed, at an early age, to the
4




74       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
son of one of my father's friends, and, although there
was nothing in him to awaken my enthusiasm, I
was habituated to the thought of becoming his wife.
"Andrew, fobr such was his name, was good,
simple, and very affectionate. I had a strong friendship for him, but no love. That calm sentiment
satisfied me, because I knew no other.
"To relieve the solitude I experienced, when my
domestic occupations were over for the day, I was
accustomed to take long and solitary walks in the
fields, or on the sea-shore. I sought out the paths
which wound over the banl;s; these were always
carpeted with green, and, when the sun began to decline, I would seat myself upon a moss-covered cliff,
look out upon the ocean, and watch the changing
of the sombre waters, as wave rolled after wave,
and gleams of light shot forth, and then disappeared.
I watched the tide, as it rose silently, gaining little
by little on the sandy beach, until it broke upon the
pebbles beyond, and rolled them to and fro with a
hollow sound.
" Then, my soul was stirred with new emotions:
the breeze from the ocean, the last rays of the sun,
burying themselves in the waves, the monotonous
plaints of the sea, all excited my imagination. I
was moved and troubled, for I felt myself alone,
with no one to admire with me the beauties of ZNature. Disquieted and agitated, I longed for a soul
to sympathize with mine.'"Then, I quitted the shore for the fields, and
even here I was sad. Repose reigned everywhere;




THE INFANTICIDE.              75
the cows were chewing at their ease the salt grass;
from the village arose the sound of the children's
voices at their play; the smoke peacefully curled
above the chimneys of the cottages, giving sign of
the evening meal in preparation. All was calm: I
alone was not at rest. I bowed my head in my
hands, and wept bitterly.
"On a little elevation near the village was a
large wooden cross, supported by two or three
rustic stone steps.  Ordinarily, before returning
home, I repaired thither to kneel and pray; there,
peace overspread my soul, as the dew descends from,
heaven; I then dried my tears, arose, and proceeded
homeward. I embraced my mother, welcomed my
betrothed, and forgot the storm that had passed
/over my soul. Still, the day after saw it renewed.
" One evening, when I had been more than usually agitated, I quitted the sea-shore with hasty
steps, without noticing the beautiful flowers which
enamelled the svard, and which I thoughtlessly
crushed. As I proceeded, I found myself near the
cross, and a few steps more would have brought me
to it, when, raising my eyes, I perceived a stranger
standing upon the lower step. IIe was young and
richly attired; his black hair floated around I)is
high forehead, which was as white as a woman's,
and a delicate mustache adorned his lip. I had
ample leisure to notice him, for he was standing
motionless, absorbed in the contemplation of the sea.
"I was fascinated. Never before had I beheld
one of so aristocratic a bearing. In appearance he




tVo      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
surpassed the ideal of my dreams. I felt glued to
the spot, and dared not attempt to move. The
stranger, however, soon perceived me; he advanced
toward me, saluting me with the most exquisite
courtesy, and asked me for some information about
the locality. I replied tremblingly: I felt awkward and embarrassed; and as soon as possible
made my way, like a frightened bird, to the village.
" At the foot of the hill I stopped to take breath,
for my heart beat as if I should suffocate.
" Overwhelmed with surprise at my emotion, I
resumed my path, but, before losing sight of the
eminence I had quitted, an irresistible impulse led
me to look back; the stranger was still standing
where I had seen him, but he was no longer looking
toward the ocean; his gaze was riveted on me.
When he perceived me turn toward him, he saluted
me again. I then comprehended in an instant my
imprudence, but it occasioned me no regret. ~ It already seemed to me that a mysterious tie united me
to the unknown; a rush of joy dilated every fibre of
my heart; every thing grew bright before me.
"I passed a sleepless night; but, when morning
dawned, a reaction passed over me. I reflected on
what had occurred, and was agitated with fear.
Why should this stranger have so attracted me?
I knew him not, and perhaps should never meet him
again. Ought I indeed even desire to?
"Profound sadness now filled my soul, the- sun
seemed obscured, and the earth joyless; after giving




THE INFANTICIDE.             7
way to a flood of tears, I sincerely resolved not to
return to the spot, for fear that -I should again meet
the stranger. All day long, I remained in a state of
depression.
" At a short distance from the village, in an opposite direction from the beach, stood a small oratory, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, which had
been erected ages ago by a huntsman, who had lost
his way during a storm, and came near perishing by
being precipitated into a ravine. This oratory was
open day and night, and, for more than nine hundred years, had afforded shelter to persons overtaken by storms. The young girls of the village
came there to deposit at the feet of the Mother of
God either a garland of corn-flowers or a bouquet
of Marguerites gathered in the fields; while the
laborers, as they passed by it, respectfully uncovered
their heads. I directed my steps toward this oratory, hoping to appease the turmoil. in my heart by
praying to Mary.
-" As I stepped upon the threshold, the stranger
was before me! He dipped his finger in the holywater font at the door, and courteously held it
toward me. I drew back, but, overcome by emotion,
leaned for support against the wall outside. Perceiving my agitation, he came forth, and, placing.my
arm in his, led me to a grassy knoll, where he caused
me to sit down until I should recover myself. Placing himself meanwhile at my feet, he addressed me
in a sweet, caressing tone, as though he were comforting and reassuring a child.




s78'ITHE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"Although he spoke to me for a long time, I
was too much agitated to understand all he said,
and only noted the exquisite harmony of his voice.
Little by little I took courage to look at him. His
dark-blue eyes beamed with a light that penetrated
to the bottom of my heart. I endeavored to struggle against the influences I felt myself under, and
fly-but in vain; an invisible bond held me to the
individual before me. I felt that my existence belonged to this mlan, who had been a stranger to me
until the evening before.
"On leaving me, he made me promise that I
would see him again the next day. The Vicomte
Maximin de  ~ had come to visit a watering-place
in the adjoining village, and was making an excursion to ours, when he met me. This is the man who
was the cause of my misfortunes.
" He returned every day, and we met in a vale
among the hills. How persuasive was his voice as
he told his love! How eloquent his words when he
painted the beauties of Nature! Together, we inhaled the refreshing odor of the sea-grass; together,
gazed with delight on the silvery flashes which lit
up the ocean, and saw ourselves encompassed by
the transparent and mysterious haze which arose
from it. I called to mind my former hours of solitude and sadness, and, in comparing these memories
with the rapture I now enjoyed, I seemed to have
found immeasurable happiness. Alas! it was but
of short duration. Why must it be that the sunillumined paths which lead by perfumed shades, and




TEHE INFANTICIDE.            79
are overhung with a veil of poesy, conduct only to
an abyss!
"The summer passed; the autumn came with its
yellow leaves and misty mornings.  Cold winds
blew along the coast, and the angry ocean threw its
crested waves against the cliffs. The bathers, true
birds of passage, deserted the sea-shore, to return to
Paris. lMaximin also went, but he did not return.
His protestations of love had melted away with the
warm breezes of summer, and I was left solitary.
"My loneliness was to me something frightful;
and each day seemed interminable, where before,
three months had passed almost unconsciously.
Braving tile wind, the cold, and the rain, I went
daily to sit for long hours on the steps of the cross.'I still hoped that AMaximin would return, but he appeared not.
" There came, at last, a day when I discovered,
with mingled emotions of terror and of joy, that I
was to become a mother. Mly courage was aroused;
I said to myself,'I must go seek the father of my
child.' I knew not the name of his family, but I resolved to leave my home and look for him in Paris.
The only obstacle that restrained me was, the difficulty of finding him; the thought that he might
repulse me, and be indifferent to his child, never
crossed my mind.
" I secretly quit my father's roof, while the household were wrapped in the slumbers of night. I
knelt at the door of my cottage, and stifled the sobs
that impeded my prayer. To abandon my mother




80       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
seemed cruel, but my child demanded my first care.
I walked a part of the way on foot, and carried with
me only a few light articles of clothing, and my
savings in money, sufficient to support me for a year.
"On my arrival in Paris I rented a little furnished chamber under an assumed name.
"I then began my weary search. I had had no
idea of the size of Paris; when I surveyed those
labyrinths of streets and boulevards, I despaired of
ever finding Maximin; I therefore adopted the plan
of visiting every day the public promenades. Several months passed, and I had discovered no clew to
the object of my search. Finally, one day when I
had seated myself, weary and discouraged, on a
bench in the Champs Elysees, and was listlessly observing the equipages as they rolled by, on their
way to the Bois de Boulogne, my eye caught sight
of Maximin, in an elegant cabriolet, drawn by two
magnificent blooded horses in tandem. I rose up,
and, uttering a loud cry, fell back upon my seat.
The carriage rolled on. The footman heard my cry,
and looked round at the spot where I -was, thus
giving me a full view of his person. I noticed also,
that he was clad in dark-blue livery, and I fixed all
in my memory. Hope revived in my heart.'I shall
find Maximin,'   I thought,'for I now know his servant.'
" I found myself, one evening, near a house in
the Faubourg Saint-Honore, at which the guests
were assembling for a party. Placing myself in an
angle of the gate-way, and watching the carriages




THE INFANTICIDE.            81
as they passed through into the court, at length I
recognized Maximin's footman. I resolved to keep
my post, and await the return of the carriage, at the
close of the party. My heart beat violently at the
thought that so slight an interval of space separated
me from my lover.
"The evening wore on. Lights gleamed upon
the darkness from the windows of the mansion; but
the night was wet and stormy, and gusts of wind
rudely shook my frame. What did it matter? My
long search was near its close. Two o'clock struck,
and the emblazoned carriage, with its liveried footman, was on its return. I followed, and with difficulty kept up with it. Fortunately, the distance
was not great, or my strength would have failed me.
The carriage turned into the court-yard of a handsome dwelling. After carefully noting the street
and the number, I returned to my lodginCs.
"I was worn out with fatigue, but my heart was
full of joy, for I had found the father of my child.
Before removing my wet and mud-stained garments,
I knelt down to return thanks to God. I then went
to bed and slept profoundly. It was ten o'clock in
the morning before I awoke. A faint ray of the sun
penetrated my little chamber; I hastily arose and
dressed myself in my best clothing. Now, for the
first time, anxiety took possession of my heart:
Would Maximin know me again? I had suffered so
much, and wept so much during the past six months,
that my beauty had disappeared like a shadow: I
was pale and wasted. I began to tremble, my heart




82       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
failed me, and I wept. But I said to myself:'It is
not the satisfaction of my love that I seek, but the
fulfilment of a duty; not the reclamation of a lover,
but the vindication of the name and honor of my
child.' I therefore dried my tears, and set out for
the residence of M3aximin.
"It was noon when I arrived there. Inquiring
for the vicomte, the porter directed me to the first
door on the second floor. I rang the bell; the valet
opened the door, and I entered. MIaximin, half reclining upon a divan, was smoking, and reading the
morning papers. I stood still, faint, and ready to
fall to the floor; perceiving my agitation, he arose
and handed me a chair. MIy veil still covered my
face; he had not yet recognized me.
"'What do you wish madame?' said he. I
then raised my veil and looked at him. He knew
me at once, grew pale, bit his lips, and murmured,'Valentine!'
"'Yes, it is indeed myself,. faximin, and I have
long been seeking you.'
"'So you still remember me, little one?  The
loves of the sumnier-time pass when the warm rays
of the sun disappear. Those were happy days. It
was the most poetic love of my life. I enjoyed some
delightful hours, thanks to you, Valentine. I shall
always keep the recollection of them fresh in my
memory. But what brings you to Paris?'
"' Do you ask such a question? What, indeed,
except to find you? "
"'Child, this is unreasonable. Those times have




THE INFANTICIDE.             83
passed, and I havve other occupations now. Mieetings such as those of ours on the shore of the ocean,
in thie midst of the mossy cliffs, would be ridiculous
in this great city. You must not think of me, but
go back to the green fields of your own country.
Besides, the air of the capital does not agree with
you-you are pale and suffering.' At this reply, my
heart was ready to burst. I arose from my seat,
and said quietly to him:
"' Maximin, if you no longer have any love to
bestow on me, I shall not importune you fcr it, but
I must nevertheless ask of you a name for your
child.' He turned pale again, and stammered out:
"'cA name! But young woman, it is not expected that a man should confirm his intrigues with
his name; certainly you cannot suppose that. So,
you are a mother; well, let us make an agreement;
I am an honest man, Valentine, and I will take care
of the child. It shall cost you nothing to bring it
up, and your situation, too, at the present time, will
call for expenses, which I agree to defray myself.
But no scandal, I beg of you, or you would displease
me, and I could then do nothing more for you.'
"' Then. sir, you will not marry me?'
"' It is out of the question.'
"And you will do nothing to efface the stain
that will cling to the career of your child?'
"' I can do nothing.'
"' And will you condemn me to dishonor without pity?'
" But you see I must.'




84       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"I threw myself at the feet of the vicomte, and
clasping his knees, exclaimed:'M3aximin, in the
name of our former love, for the sake of the future
of our child, have pity; give me at least some
hope.' ~ He withdrew himself from me.
"'Madame, it is useless: no scenes; I have given
you warning.' He opened a secretary and drew
forth a heavy purse. I arose also, and extended my
hand for it.
"' So sir I can never become your wife?'
"' Never.'
"' This is your final decision?'
"' It is.'
"Throwing the purse with violence at the vicomte's head, I exclaimed:'Sir, the honor of my
family is not to be bartered for money. Thank
Heaven, your child shall never know that he is the
son of a villain!' He clinched his fists with anger,
and I turned toward the door, out of which I passed
withlout once looking behind me. I was still ill the
anteroom when I heard him say to the servant:
"'If you let that woman in again, I will discharge you!'
"A profound contempt for the vicomte replaced
my former love. I returned to my little chamber,
with no prospect in the future but a life of shame.
I remained in a state of torpor and depression
from which I could not rouse myself until evening.
"I had taken no nourishment.  I was suffering
from cold, desperation, and the sense of insult. In
the night, the pains of childbirth seized me, and I




THE INFANTICIDE.            85
was delivered of my child alone, and without assistance. Mly poor infant was born prematurely, but
was living. When I heard its first faint cries, all a
mother's joy inundated my soul; I pressed to my
bosom  the little forsaken one.  But next, dark
thoughts entered my mind. I said to myself,'This
child will, carry with him, as long as he lives, the stigma of illegitimacy. I-Ie is the son of Maximin, and
doubtless, will, like his father, be a villain and a
wretch.?  I pushed the child from me; my nerves
were in a tremor, and I took it up again; my fingers
contracted round its neck. So feeble was the child
that its breath was gone in a moment. When I
heard its cries no more, I shuddered with terror.
My maternal feelings revived; I held my child near
the light, that I might examine it more closely; it
had ceased to live. I had killed my son! I gave a
cry, and fell fainting."
Here, the unhappy woman burst into sobs, wrung
her hands,:and covered her head with the bedclothing. Her tears moved my heart; I uncovered her
head, and would have caressed her, but she pushed
me away, saying: "Madame, I do not merit your
pity; cast me off, curse me; I have killed my own
child!"  She wept a long time. When her emotion
had subsided, I asked pardon for having renewed
her grief-I rested her head upon my shoulder, and
calmed her by kind and consoling words.
Finally, she continued her sad story:
"My cry, and the noise of my fall, were heard.
My door was burst open. The police were notified.




86       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
A blue mark appeared on the neck of the child; I
was interrogated, I confessed all, I was placed under
arrest. After receiving the care my situation demanded, I was sent here to St.-Lazare.
"It is now known who I am; my family will
have heard for the first time of my fault, and of
the crime which followed it. My poor mother, already inconsolable for my disappearance, must have
wellnigh died of grief.  I now calmly await my
sentence, for, whatever punishment justice may decree, it will be less terrible than the remorse which
devours my heart."
Poor Valentine! she has a delicate and poetic
nature; and at eighteen she is the victim of a seducer!
Our laws punish violence, dear Marie, but they
do not punish seduction. Nevertheless, women,
however weak and timid, can protect themselves
against violence, but they are powerless against
seduction. To love is natural to them, and, if some
vigilant firiend be not near to warn her, the young
girl may fall an easy prey to the deceiver. At sixteen, the period of inexperience and of illusions, love
is viewed as through a prism, and its dangers are
unthought of. Why should not young girls be
placed under the protection of the law, until they
shall have reached their twenty-first year? If the
seducer were either obliged to marry his victim, or
were punished, fewer crimes and misfortunes would
be heard of.
Not only do our laws, however, not punish the




THE INFANTICIDE.              87
seducer, but our social-customs encourage him. The
woman who scorns and disdains her poor, abandoned
sister, welcomes with her most gracious smile the
author of the latter's fall; while he, on his part, reckons his triumphs by the number of his victims.
For shame! A woman fails in her duty to her
sex when she does not scorn him who outrages it.
She who does not is either unfeeling or unprincipled,
or she is guilty herself.
These were the reflections that naturally passed
through my mind in view of poor Valentine's history. Entirely overcome, she had fallen back upon
her bed. Her eyes were tearless, for she had already wept them dry, and her face still retained the
blush that shame had imprinted there. When I
thought her sufficiently composed to listen to me, I
spoke to her at length, seeking to sustain her with
all the consolations that God authorizes us to offer
the penitent sinner. She thanked me with a sad
smile. When I had ceased speaking, she fell into a
profound slumber, and I left her, quitting her bedside on tiDtoe.
August 18th.
I often see Valentine, and I love her, for a confidence imparted is a tie that binds two souls. The
light of joy shines in her eyes when I make my appearance. To-day, when I carried her some delicacies firom my own table, she wept and said: " If I
had my child, these choice bits would be for him.




88       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Madame, do you believe that God will pardon me
for having taken the life of my child?"
"God can pardon all, because He knows the secrets of all hearts. He knows of what we are made,
and we have but to bow to IIis holy will when He
punishes us for our faults."
"Thank you, madame, your words always give
me so much comfort; they sound in my ears long
after you have left me. At night, I see you in
my dreams; only, your face is transfigured, and
a ray of light illuminates your forehead; you
invariably wear a white robe, and your hair,
changed to a flaxen hue, falls in curls upon your
shoulders."
I laughed at these fancies of her imagination,
but Valentine looked serious and added:
"More still, madame. It seems to me, in my
dreams, that you live under the same roof with me,
and that we breathe the same atmosphere. At the
same time I know well that vou come from a distance to visit poor prisoners."
This reflection surprised me, for Valentine is entirely igncrant of who I am. It never had occurred
to me to go about the house in any other than my
secular dcless.
The prisoners generally believe me a "cdame de
l'oeuvre," one of those pious ladies of whom you
must know, nMarie, that there is a number who come
to visit the de'tenutes, and who interest themselves in
behalf of this class, on the occasion of their discharge from St.-Lazare, finding places for them, or




THE INFANTICIDE.            89
procuring them work; in a word, doing what they
can to prevent their relapsing into crime.
Unfortunately, this admirable society does not
count many members, and its means are too limited.
It is to be desired that, in a city like Paris, where
there are so many generous souls who pass their
lives in giving succor to the unfortunate, this work
should be greatly extended and placed under the
patronage of some distinguished person.
Would that ladies of wealth and position might
take under their protection these poor, unfortunate
women! This would be a moral work of immense
importance; for those who have fallen into vice
only under the pressure of poverty would cling to
the magnanimous hand extended to withdraw them
from their unhappy condition.
August 19th.
Confined in the "Pistole" is a young lady of
distinguished manners and rare beauty. You do
not know perhaps what I mean by " Pistole," Marie.
By this name certain reserved rooms are known,
which are put at the disposition of any detenue who
is willing to pay twenty centimes, or four sous, a
day. The name probably was derived from the fact
that formerly these rooms were rented at one pistole
a month, a piece of money equivalent to about ten
francs. This young woman's name is Clemence. I
found her one day bathed in tears, and, when I tried
to console her, she replied:
" Madame, my unhappiness is of that nature that




9o0      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
it can end only with my life. I married unfortunately, and nothing can be done about that, but
weep in silence. Nevertheless, my husband is an
honest man and loves me.  But I married him
against my will. You would not believe what I
have suffered in consequence. I assure you, madame, poverty in a state of freedom is far preferable
to riches gained by a union in which the heart has
no share."
"Why, then, did you consent to such a marriage."
"' I was, in a measure, forced into it, under the
plea that it was such a good match. I can tell you
my history; it is very simple, and is but the repetition of that of many young girls who marry."
You know, my dear friend, how I love to hear
histories; so I seated myself to listen.




STORY OF A " GOOD MNATCH."
"I WAS born in a village in one of the provinces.
I lost my mother while yet in my cradle. My
father was possessed of only moderate means, and
was burdened, besides, with a numerous family.
Thus, he was forced to marry again. My youth was
spent unhappily; a strange woman was seated at
our hearth, and took from us all that was left to us,
the affection of our father. My brothers and myself very often cried; they remembered the caresses
lavished upon us by our good mother, and they
taught me to repulse her who had taken that mother's place. They, at an early age, left the paternal
roof. I was left alone, and my isolation increased
the bitterness of my tears.
"A cousin was my only companion; he had a
sweet and sympathetic nature, comprehended my
loneliness, and tried to console me. We grew up
together. Every day, the estrangement between
my father and myself widened and deepened. I
experienced the greatest repugnance for my stepmother. I loved no one in the world but Francis.
M3y cousin's early education had been obtained
under his father's roof; and, when he went to Paris




92       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
to complete it, what sadness his departure caused
me!
"At sixteen years of age, I was sought in marriage by a gentleman who was rich, and in good
standing in society. MIy step-mother, who had a
lively desire to rid herself of me, welcomed this occasion as a piece of good fortune. But this gentle-.
man did not please me in the least; he was much
older than myself, and between us Francis's image
persistently stood. I at first formally refused to
marry him. However, I was alone, and had not
strength to fight long against the will of my stepmother, or the insinuations of my father, coupled
with the protestations of him who sought my hand.
To all my objections, my father replied that, as I
had no marriage-portion, I never could expect to
find so suitable a match. All ended by my yielding, and I was married.
"Alas! why will a family strive to force uncongenial elements to meet? Are they ignorant that
fire and water extinguish one another when brought
into contact, and that two opposing shocks of electricity produce thunder, the most terrible of all phenomena?
" From that day, my life has been one long martyrdom. I made use of my fortune without enjoying it, and consumed myself in secret tears. God
gave me one immense consolation in my sorrow, the
possession of a daughter; and I declare that, if I
live, she shall never marry against her will.' In the mean time, for special reasons, my hus



STORY OF A ".GOOD MATCH."        93
band was obliged to leave the provinces, and come
to live in Paris. By this removal, I was again
thrown into the society of my cousin, who had just
left the military school of St. Cyr. On finding me
married, and the mother of a child, he turned pale
with astonishment, for, until now, he was in ignorance of what had occurred in our family. He
wished to know if I was happy, and soon comprehended that I was not. My husband received him
with suspicion, but, as he was my cousin, he dared
not repulse him entirely.
"  eanwbile, my birthday, the event of the year
to me, recurred. It was a delicious evening, and I
was seated upon a sofa enjoying the twilight, and
the sweet, soft air coming through the open windows; the flower-stands were filled with fragrant
bouquets, which shed on all sides their intoxicating
perfumes; my child was playing upon a cushion at
my feet. I thought of the sad past, and the future
so full of danger, until I was tired of life. The
thoughts of Francis so filled my heart that I no
longer dared to interrogate it. MIarguerite crept
upon my knees, and I stroked her silken curls.
"The bell rang; it was Francis. My daughter
shouted with joy on seeing him, while I tried to
quiet the beating of my own heart. In taking
hMarguerite from my arms, his hand slightly touched
my shoulder; it was unfortunate. Looking, around
the room, he asked:
"'Why all these flowers to-day?'
"'It is my birthday, and that is the reason




94       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
my husband has had these flowers placed in my
vases!'
" He bit his lips, and said:
"'He has done his duty. I had forgotten the
day, as I forget every thing in my trouble.'
"'You troubled, Francis?'
"  Yes. But what does that signify, if your
own days run smoothly on, under an unclouded
sky?'
"I hung down my head, and he continued:''If I were sure that you are happy, if I saw
you gay and smiling, I could be resigned to any
thing, even to never seeing you again. But there
are moments when your lips tremble, and your
cheeks grow pale; when your eyes, which had
sparkled with joy on beholding Marguerite, become
dull and passionless on turning to your husband.
Clemence, I have observed you for a long time;
you are a valiant soul, for you suffer without complaining. WVhat a misfortune that you are married!'
"I had not the strength to reply, and he continued:
"'Do you remember the sweet years of our
youth, and our happy sports upon the green sward?
You have acted very weakly; if I had not left you,
you would now have been free.'
"I  began to sob. He continued:
"' I And this is the end of it-under a gilded exterior, you llide secret unhappiness. Is it not so? 
" He took my hand and covered it with kisses.
"I made no reply. He added:




STORY OF A " GOOD MATCH."        95
"'I was poor, like yourself, Clemence, and I
had nothing but my sword, but, if you had waited,
you might have been happier than you are now.'
"' Yes,' murmured I.
6 "He looked at me steadily, and asked"' Why did you marry, then?'
"' I was compelled to. You know I was but sixteen years old.'
"' IMy poor friend, have you suffered much?
"'Yes.'
"I withdrew my hand from his, and covered my
face.
"My little daughter said:
"' Mamma, what makes you cry?'
"I only replied:
"'Come, my child, and kiss me.'"' Marguerite encircled my neck with one of her
little arms, while she threw the other round the neck
of my cousin. His hair and mine commingled, and
he said to me in a low voice:
"'Clemence, how much thou art loved!'
"My only response was, to embrace my daughter.
"My cousin covered the place of my kisses upon
her cheeks with his own.
"The sight of Francis, which had once proved
only an agreeable distraction to my troubles, now
served only to increase them; for, from that time,
my life was one of anxiety and apprehension. I had
a double task to perform, in soothing my cousin,
and quieting my husband's suspicions. But I felt
misgivings, also, that all was not quite right with




:96      THE PRISONERS- OF ST.-LAZARE.
my own heart. The presence of my child was the
sole mitigation to my distress, and sometimes even
she increased my danger. Marguerite and Francis
loved each -other so much, that they became inseparable. At one time I entertained the thought of
repelling my cousin from me. How true it is that. a
married woman call have no real joys -outside of her
home!
"One day, as I was alone in the parlor, Francis
suddenly made his appearance, and said:' Clemence,
I must leave you.; I have received orders to join my
regiment, and I come to bid you adieu. My God,
what it costs me to do so!' This sudden announcement deprived me of all courage; my self-possession
abandoned me, and I burst into tears. How conficting at times are the emotions of the human
heart! I had desired a separation from him, and,
now that it was about to be accomplished, I was in
despair! I advanced toward Francis and said:
"'How can you go away, and leave me alone
with this man whom I fear?'
"He replied:
" Cousin, I have long been trying to think of
some means of dissolving this odious tie of yours.
Will you follow me? We will carry Marguerite
with us. I will wrap her in my cloak, and you shall
both be so well concealed that he never will be able
to trace us.'
C" I put my hand over his mouth.
"' Hush, hush!' cried I,' how can you dare propose such a thing to me! Would you wish to plunge




STORY OF A "GOOD MATCH."          97
me into infamy and disgrace-to inflict a stain upon
the name of my husband, and a stigma on the
honor of my child? No, I prefer death,- where I am.'
"' It is not death that awaits you. here, but something worse, a life endured with one who only makes
you wretched.'
"'Do not accuse my husband,' replied I;'it is
you and I alone who are to blame. Go, Francis; I
will resign myself to my fate, I will fulfil to the utmost my duties as a wife. I but hope I may soon
die.'
"My cousin threw himself at my feet, and besought me with tears to consent to his proposals.
I was overwhelmed with anguish; I anathematized
society that gives sanction to such unions as that
of minle. I was about to seek refuge near my child,
that I might strengthen my courage. As I rose,
my eyes caught sight, in a mirror before me, of a
face that terrified me. 3fy husband had entered
the room, unknown to us, and had been a witness to
a part of this scene!
"lie stood motionless, his fists clinched, his face
pale, and his eyes flashing fire. I uttered a cry of
dismay. Francis turned and saw my husband, who
closed the door behind him, and advanced.
"' Sir,' said he,'Cyou have come to my house like
a thief, to rob me of my honor. When we encounter
a robber, we may deal promptly with him. Defend
yourself! I rushed toward my cousin, and cried"'Francis, swear to me that you will not lift
weapons against the father of my child!'
5S




98       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
" lie hesitated for a moment, and replied:
"' I swear it, upon my sword.'
"Then, turning toward my husband, he crossed
his arms upon his breast, and said to him:
"'You are defending your rights, sir; I await
your revenge.'
" {My husband held menacingly in his right hand
a poniard which he often carried on his person. I
fell on my knees before him, and exclaimed:
"''Must you become an assassin, because I am
unfortunate?'
" He pushed me from him.
"' Defend yourself!' cried he to Francis, who remained motionless. Finally, he opened the door,
and said to my coutsin:
"' Then, you can leave; you are a villain!' Francis wavered at this insult, and turned toward me.
"', Poor Clemence! poor victim!' murmured he,
and slowly withdrew.
" The frightened domestics had crowded into
the anteroom at the noise of the altercation, and
cast anxious and curious glances into the parlor. I
flow to my chamber. lSy husband, following me,
said:
"''Madame, make your preparations. You will
soon set out on a long journey,' and then left me.
Frightful presentiments filled my heart. I had
Marguerite brought to me, and I held her for a long
time closely pressed to my bosom.
"In one hour after my husband returned, and
bade me embrace my daughter for the last time. My




STORY OF A " GOOD MIATCH."         99
knees gave way under me, and I fell prostrate upon
the floor, exclaiming:
"'Have mercy! I am not guilty of crime; do
not take my child from me.' He smiled a bitter
smile, and, in spite of my efforts and Marguerite's
cries, he tore her from my arms and put her into the
hands of a maid, who took her away.
"I soon heard the rumbling of a carriage in the
street, leaving the house.  Hardly was the noise
lost in the distance, than he said to me,'INow for
us two, madame.' Then, throwing a cloak over my
shoulders, and placing the lhood of it over my head,
he led me away. I was overwhelmed with grief
and anxiety, not for myself, but for my child. However, I unresistingly followed him.
"A  carriage was waiting for us at the door,
which we entered. The coachman immediately
touched off his horses, and, traversing a multitude
of small streets, brought us out upon the quays.
We crossed a bridge, and soon after the carriage
stopped; we were at the office of the chief of police. Mlly husband descended, and his place was
taken by an officer. The carriage moved on again.
Rtousing myself from my stupor, I tried to open the
door. I cried out:
"'IMy husband, my child!' The officer drew
me back, shut the windows, closed the curtains, and
said to me:
"' Bladame, keep quiet.'
"'Where are we going?' said I.
"'You will soon learn,' he replied.




100      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"When the carriage stopped, I found myself inside the court of St.-Lazare, and before a door partially grated and bearing the inscription:
PREMIERE SECTION.
PREVENUES.-CONDAMINEES.
" The officer gave a light stroke with the knocker, and the keepers appeared. 3Iy conductor held
in his hand a note, which he gave to the' brigadier.'
It read:'To be confined by order of her husband.
(!istole.)' I was then shown into the registry,
where my name was entered, after which I returned
to the vestibule.
"A keeper gave a signal by one stroke of a bell,
and then, placing his lips at a tube, uttered the
words,' A prisoner.'  A flight of stairs was pointed
out to me; I ascended to the floor above, where I
was received by a sister. She rang another bell,
and repeated, at a tube, the same words,'A prisoner.' Again I was desired to go a story higher;
which I did, and entered a room unfurnished except
by benches. From this room a door opened to the
left, with the word'vestiaire' written upon it. An
aged woman, dressed in black, stood at the door and
invited me in. She was the clothes-keeper of the
establishment.'" I complied, and found myself in a square chainhbe, the walls of which were covered with cases or
shelves, divided into regularly-numbered compartments for clothing. A table occupied the centre
of the room, on which lay a large open book.




STORY OF A " GOOD MATCH."       101
"' Madame, will you give me your jewels?' said
the old lady. I immediately gave her my fingerrings, ear-rings, and watch.
"' fIave you any money?' I gave her my portemonnaie, which she opened and found to contain
fifty francs. Ten of these she handed back to me,
saving: 
"' Madame, the remainder of your money, as also
your jewels, will now be deposited in the office of
registration, and will be returned to you when you
leave the prison.' She then gathered them all up
and wrote the list in the large book upon the table.
She proceeded to search my person. Finding nothing and perceiving my blushes, she said:
"' Pardon me, madame, I have only fulfilled my
indispensable duty, which is now finished, and you
can go below.'
"On the floor below I encountered the same sister to whom the officer from Paris had given the
note on my entrance, and which she still held in her
hand. In silence she conducted me through a long
corridor, indicated my cell to me, and fastened the
door securely after me.
" I do not know what has become of Francis, nor
has my husband been to see me; and three months
have now passed since I gave the last embrace to
my child."
Here the unhappy mother covered her face with
her hands, and a torrent of tears streamed from her
eyes. I let her exhaust her grief for a time, and cast
my eyes round her room. It contained four small




102      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
beds, for in this portion of St.-Lazare there are no
single cells. The coarsely-whitewashed walls were
destitute of ornament, the grated window looked
out only upon one of the cournt-yards, and the room
was destitute of furniture except a few wooden
stools painted brown, a small table, and in each corner of the room an earthen pitcher. I thought of
the privations this delicate woman, who had been
taken from a sumptuous home, must endure in a
place like this. Thinking to divert her mind from
its sad thoughts, I said to her:
"'Madame, I sympathize with your feelings; the
nakedness and solitude here must be very depressing
to you."
" She shook her head and replied:
"No,, for solitude restores me to liberty: I am
far from my husband, and I breathe freely. Poverty
does not frighten me; I have not always been rich.
Would to God my father had taught me some trade
or occupation by which I might have earned my livlug, and then he never could have been able to
marry me against my will! I should have been
poor but happy, instead of being rich and a prisoner.
Here is what this fine marriage, so much extolled
by my step-mother, has brought me to: I am in St.Lazare, and the associate of prostitutes!  As she
said this her lips grew pale, and the color mounted
to her face.
"Your husband," remarked I,'has certainly
used extreme measures. But may it not be through
your own fault? He believes you guilty, at least,




STORY OF IA "GOOD MAATCH."       103
and you did not defend yourself as you should from
the imputation."
"I am not, it is true, guilty of the crime which he
imputes to me; but, why should I try to excuse myself, when adultery was in my heart? I do not love
my husband. I do love another; therefore, I merit
my punishment."
"H-ave you no fear that your affair may become
a public scandal.?"
Smiling sadly, she replied:
"My husband is very prudent; he knows how
to preserve the honor of his name: I have no fear
for that. He will say that I have been to a watering-place, or on a journey; and, should it please him
some day to recall me to his house, he will prepare
a feast in honor of my return. Splendid toilets will
crowd my apartments; my parlors will be filled
with my friends; he will force me to rouge my
cheeks, oblige me to dry my tears and to smile upon
those who come to welcome my return. Ah! if I
had my child, how much more I would prefer my
prison-life! "
I reflected for a moment, and asked her:
"Have you written to your husband while here?"
" Never."
" You must write to him."
"Why?9'
" To ask him about Marguerite."
" Will you take charge of the letter, and convey
it to him?"
"I cannot; the rules of the house forbid it."




104      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
" Then I shall not write, because my letter would
be read by the recorder."
"Of what consequence is that to you?"
"It is of great consequence; we must keep our
sad secret to ourselves."
"L You may be sure that the secrets of St.-Lazare
are well kept."
She supplicatingly joined her hands, and said,
weeping:
"3Madame, how grateful I would be to you, if
you could bring me some information of my child! "
At this moment the great bell announced the
hour of dinner. I rose to go, but put my finger on
my lips, and whispered:
" Be of good cheer, I will see you again."
Marriage is a grave affair. To a woman, the
consequences, be they good or bad, are permanent.
Yet, in France, they marry between the ages of sixteen and eighteen! Where is there one that has
acquainted herself, before marriage, with the laws
that bear upon that condition?  Not one. She
unites her destiny, then, to that of a stranger, without comprehending the extent of the obligations she
contracts, or the weight of the yoke to which she
will have to submit. For this reason, I am constrained to compassionate all married women who
find their condition an unhappy one, as also to palliate their errors, if they commit any.
Let a woman be married at tile age of twentyone, when her reason is fully developed; but first
place in her hands a book explaining the legal con



STORY OF A "GOOD MATCH."          105
dition of a wife, and, after she has perused it attentively, then ask her if she is willing to contract
marriage. If she assents, she will understand, also,
that she accepts all the consequences of her decision.
But, do not permit her to bind herself irrevocably,
without knowing the nature of the step she is to
take. Do not take from her her fortune, her will,
her liberty, without this full appreciation on her
part of her condition. If you do, be not astonished
at her subsequent revolt, her wild resistance to her
lot, and the many faults of which shewill become
guilty!
Auugust 20th.
Valentine has recovered sufficiently to be out of
bed. She came forward to receive me, but was so
feeble that I obliged her to be seated again.
" I have passed a bad night," she said. "I saw
him again."' Whpm did you see, pray? 
"' The vicomte."
" You must forget him, my child."
"If you could know how I despise him! But
I hadl a fever yesterday; I dreamed, though half
awake, that I saw Alaximin at a party, in a large
drawing-room brilliantly lighted, and decorated with
flowers, golden candelabra, and silk drapery. He
was surrounded by a great many beautiful young
ladies, very elegantly dressed. M3aximin came and
went, smiling alike upon all, and smiled upon by all.
He stopped suddenly, and fixed a burning glance




106      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
upon a young girl, who wore an exquisite toilet
of light-blue silk, with a white flower in her dark
hair. At this glance, she grew pale, and hung down
her head. The eye of the seducer had marked another victim. I made an effort to raise my voice in
warning, to cry out:'Beware of that mal! I am
one of his victims.  He will envelop you in his
folds like a serpent, and you will be lost.' But my
voice could not force its way through my burning
throat.
"Maximin, still with his eyes fixed upon the
beautiful stranger, who was now trembling with excitement, slowly advanced toward her. I suffered
a thousand deaths at the spectacle, for I well remembered the power of his glance. At the moment
when, with quivering lips, the girl advanced in her
turn toward the vicomte, and extended her hand to
him, I made a last despairing effort to speak, and
succeeded. The words that escaped my lips immediately appeared in letters of fire upon the seducer's
forehead. I then came to myself. In an instant,
flowers, drapery, candelabra, MIaximin, the young
girl, all had disappeared. I found a religious standing by the side of my bed, who, taking my hand in
hers, said:'Valentine, my child, you are in suffering. You must try to keep calm, and get some
sleep.' I believe I had really cried out, in my halfwaking slumbers.
"When I lie awake at night, and reflect upon
where I am, how the sight of these walls depresses
me! How gloomy the light of the flickering night



STORY OF A "GOOD MATCHT."         107
lamp! Ah, madame, if women who are virtuous
only knew what remorse and suffiTerin follow in the
train of vice, never would they allow themselves to
be led astray! You, whose voice may perhaps
reach others, speak in my behalf, and tell the story
of my wretchedness, that my example may be a
warning to my sex."
Marie, the grief of this poor girl moves me most
deeply, and, when I see her weep, it is with difficulty
that I can restrain my own tears.
Aucgust 22d.
I returned to my chamber, overcome with sadness. I felt, within my own heart, as though the
concentrated griefs of all women had entered there,
so much had I heard of their sorrows, open and
secret. If Valentine's future days should be spent
in a condition of humiliation and expiation, still, she
will be in one sense free-she will not be bound to
another. But Clemence is irrevocably-joined to a
man she can never love! I threw myself upon my
bed, in a state of weariness, and, while endeavoring
to think of some means of ameliorating the condition
of women, I fell into a feverish and agitated slumber, in which I had a dream, which I will proceed
to relate.




THE VISION.
I SAW an immense plain, naked, sterile, and deserted, with here and there a little green grass
growing on the borders of innumerable paths cut in
the rocks. Daylight was approaching, but was as
yet scarcely perceptible, the sky was gloomy and
covered with clouds; not one star shone through
the darkness.
Suddenly, a multitude of women made their appearance; they came from the East, the West, the
South, and the North. All of these women wore
long black mantles, and their faces were concealed
by a veil of the same color. They advanced slowly,
almost bowed to the ground, apparently walking
with the greatest difficulty. A sound that seemed
like the rattling of chains accompanied their movements.
After them, young girls dressed ill white, and
crowned with roses, sportively advanced. In an
instant, the entire plain was covered by this multitude, and all seated themselves on the ground, except the young girls, who continued their gambols.
Suddenly, a loud voice was heard, like the roaring
of a cataract in a tempest. Raising my eyes, I per



THE VISION.              109
ceived an airy figure descending from the clouds.
Hovering  over the assembly, it uttered these
words:
"O  wives, sighing in hopeless dependence,
awaken to the reality of your condition, and contemplate it as it truly is. Behold, the yoke of man
weighs heavily upon you, because you look to him
alone for your daily sustenance, and your hearts resent this dependence. If you would enjoy freedom,
then, learn to labor."
At these words, the women who were seated
rose up; the others ceased their diversion, and all
took an attitude of attention. The voice continued:
"Yes, Nature indeed deals harshly with you.
MIan, in coming into the world, rends your womb;
in infancy, he wounds your breast; in maturity he
breaks your heart."
Then the elder women cried out:
"But, must he always break our hearts?"
And the younger exclaimed, with astonishment:
"MIothers, is it true you suffer thus?  These
are sorrows we never suspected."
Then the mothers, with a mournful smile, opened
their garments, and displayed over the place of
the heart a bloody stigma. The young girls started
back appalled, and, snatching from their heads their
crowns of roses, cast them upon the ground, crying
out:
"Poor mothers! we will leave' our sports, to
join our tears with yours."
The figure continued:




110      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
" God has created woman to be the companion
of man, to be the flesh of his flesh, and the bone of
his bone. Be such, therefore, but never consent to
be his plaything nor his slave. If God must punish
despotism in man, he must also punish weakness in
woman. 0 woman! awaken from thy deadly state!
It is time that thy slavery were at an end!"
"Shall we still be able," cried they, "to retrieve
some portion of the liberty we have lost?"
The celestial figure replied:
"In wedlock, man and woman are but parts of
one whole, they should therefore harmonize one
with the other. Nothing is to be gained by resistance; give yourselves to prayer, and God will
support you; labor, and your sufferings will be alleviated; cast your eyes up to heaven, and the
evils of this world will disappear. But, if nothing
is left to you, except to bow your heads and hide
the tears that flow, there is still a work for you to
accomplish for your daughters: they must entitle
themselves to independence by an early application
to labor, so that they may be in a condition to
choose their own husbands, and not, like you, be
condemned to a future of sorrow."
The mothers, laying their hands upon the heads
of the young girls, said:
"We solemnly promise that our daughters, secured in their independence by their familiarity with
labor, shall earn the liberty to choose their own husbands."
Once more the voice spoke:




THE VISION.              111
"0 womnan, arise from your servitude, and let
labor set you free!"
Then the figure disappeared in space, leaving the
echo of its parting words to be caught up and repeated by future generations of women, as the password to happiness: "Let labor set you free!"  A
ray of sunlight spread over the plain; and the phantoms of my vision vanished.
I awoke, panting and oppressed; involuntarily, I
laid my hand on my heart: it was not wounded exteriorly, it had only suffered interiorly from the
wounds of others. I threw around me a morningwrapper, and, without pausing to gather up my hair,
which hung loosely. over my shoulders, I went to
lean on the sill of my window to breathe the fresh
air. My blinds were open, and I was listening to
the great clock as it sounded the hour of eight,
when I heard a cry in the court below.
The prison-van was there, and one of the inmates
was supplicatingly extending her arms toward me,
crying out:
" Mly dream, 0 my dream!"
It was Valentine! She had been tried the night
before, and condemned to three years' imprisonment,
and was now about to be carried to the central
prison, to expiate her sentence. She waved a last
adieu, and the keeper led her away. I never saw
her more.
As to Mlaximin, he is enjoying, I learned, this
world's happiness; he is admired and feasted, and
is about to marry a rich heiress.




112      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
August 231.
The departure of Valentine saddened me; besides, these walls, these gratings, oppress my heart;
I cannot habituate myself to them. To change the
scene, I walked out, so that, by withdrawing from
St.-Lazare, I might forget it for a time at least. I
picked up a book at random, and directed my steps
toward a little' quiet walk that I had discovered outside the walls. I had been for some ten minutes
seated on a bench, when an aged lady, of a very
respectable appearance, leaning upon the arm of a
distinguished-looking young man, apparently her
son, came and took a seat at my side. The gentleman, after saluting me, seated himself near his
mother. At this moment my book fell from my lap
to the ground. The young gentleman very politely
picked it up and returned it to me. At the same
time, looking at the title, he remarked:
"Madame, you are reading Mi. de —?"
"Yes, sir," I replied.
"Do you admire his style?"
" Very much —he is my favorite author."' How so? Is it because you know him personally? "
"No, sir."
" Ihave seen him, and even spoken to him," remarked he.
" And what do yout think of him?''
"I esteem him; he is a clever man, but very
odd; in that particular he resembles his class. You
know all literary people are peculiar."




THE VISION.              113
"Do you think so? " I inquired.
"Assuredly, madame; are you not acquainted
with literary people? "
I evaded a reply, and he resumed:
"It is easy to discern that you have never been
familiar with the princes of the inkhorn. Allow me
to compliment you on that point, madame, for in
their company we are always in danger of losing
the plain good sense with which Nature has endowed us. Place a literary man in the midst of
twenty persons of various conditions in life, and you
will distinguish him immediately friom all others:
he will either have his cravat wrong side out, or a
lock of rebellious hair menacing the sky, or there
will be something in his manner or dress different
from others."
I commenced to laugh, and said:
" Since you say so, sir, I must believe you; but
you surprise me. I had thought, until now, that
men of letters were like other men."
At this the lady remarked:
"'My son has an aversion for literary persons,
but he goes too far. I can excuse him for his detesting authoresses; in that he does well, but as to
men, authorship is an honorable calling for them."
The young man tapped the heel of his polished
boot with his cane, and resumed:
"Female authors! Blue-stockings! Bah! They
are folly personified. One may discover them still
more readily than male authors, by their positive
style of gait, and their eccentric toilets. —You,




114:     THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
madame, who are attired so simply and naturally,
must have been especially struck by their oddities."
I laughed in my sleeve, but made no reply. The
gentleman soon commenced walking to and fro near
us. The old lady regarded him with eyes of affection.
"My son is handsome, and talks well, does he
not?" said she to me.
"LIadame, you are unquestionably a happy
mother."
"Pardon me my admiration for him," she replied; "he is my only earthly joy. He is such a
good son'! I hope God will return to him all the
happiness he has been the means of bestowing upon
his mother," and some tears escaped her. She continued:
"I have only one desire, and that is, to see him
united to a companion worthy of him before I die.
I have given him full permission to marry, but he
evinces no inclination to do so. I desire that no
considerations of fortune or of birth should influence him. Provided his wife be virtuous and gentle, and will always consult his happiness, I shall be
content. But he is not easily pleased; he is free to
choose, and is independent in his circumstances,
nay, is rich. I3lay God give him wisdom, and may
he be happy!"
The young man turned again toward us, and
the mother ceased to speak. To hear this unknown
womnan speak so tenderly of her son. moved me.
We parted.




THE VISION.              1
September 15th.
I was tired of writing, and I laid aside my manuscript to seek a little recreation. I went out every
day to walk on my favorite promenade. It is an unfirequented spot, overlooking the Strasbourg Railroad
depot from the west. There I often met the old
lady referred to in my last letter. On such occasions I would close my book, and we would enter'
into conversation, while she occupied herself with
some light needle-work. We always separated with
a mutual glanceimplying a rendezvous for the next
day.
Last week the lady did not meet me, as usual,
and I concluded that she was either sick or absent;
but yesterday, just as I was about leaving, she
mada her appearance. She was pale, and in those
few days had grown older in appearance by several
years. She came toward me, and sat down, almost
overcome with agitation, upon the bench beside me,
saying:
"I was looking for you, madame, and undoubtedly I shall appear to you very indiscreet and absurd, but you will have compassion upon a poor old
mother, and answer my questions. 3My son is sick,
and in danger of death.  Last night, during his
delirium, I took occasion to interrogate him. He
admires you, madame, dr rather mademoiselle, for
you are not married, are you?" upon which she
cast her eyes upon my ungloved hand, to convince
herself.
" I amn free, madame," I replied.




116      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"My son," she continued, "is desirous of knowing who you are; he has presumed to follow you,
that he might ascertain your residence, and he was
punished well for his temerity, for he believes he
saw you enter St.-Lazare. Reassure him through
me, and let me tell him that he was mistaken."
"It is true, madame. I do inhabit the establishment of St.-Lazare."
"Then you admit it, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, madame."
"What a misfortune! ZMy son would have offered you his hand ill marriage, whatever might
have been your position; but, to a prisoner of St.Lazare-"' And who told you I was a prisoner? 
"No one. But then, why are you there in prison?"
" Think a little: prisoners are never allowed to
go out."
" That is true, at least, generally speaking. However, there may be privileged characters among the
prisoners; for example, ladies of rank, who can have
a keeper to follow them at a distance, perhaps. Now,
mademoiselle, my son is persuaded that your case is
an exceptional one, and in his delirium he talks of
nothing but the prison. I know him well; he will
die if he is not relieved from his sad impressions,"
and the poor mother began to weep.
I pitied her, and said:
"Madame, your son appeared to me to be a man
of intelligence; how is it that he does not compre



THE VISION.              117
hend that there must be others besides prisoners in
a house of that kind, and that it is necessary that
some one be appointed to oversee and govern, and
provide for the inmates; in a word, that functionaries are needed to fulfil these duties? "
The old lady uttered a cry of joy, and, wiping
away her tears, seized my hands in a transport of
delight.
"Pardon me, mademoiselle, I comprehend: you
belong to the family of one of these functionaries.
You shall be my daughter, and you shall make my
son happy; he is saved; you will not refuse to
marry him, will youi?"  She arose, still continuing:
"I will run to carry him this good news, and it will
cure hlim. I ask your pardon for our error-you, a
prisoner!"
As. she was about to leave, I detained her to say:
" Do not rejoice too soon, madame; your son will
never marry me."
"Do you refuse him, then?"
" No; but he will never ask me when he comes
to know who I am."
The lady stepped back a little and looked at me
with an air of anxiety, saying:
" Who, then, are you? "
"To your son, madame, I should prove more objectionable than a prisoner.  I am aaZt authoress."
The poor mother sat down upon the bench, confounded, and I profited by her astonishment to descend hurriedly from the terrace and disappear. I
laughed at this adventure until I cried. I took care




118      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
not to return again to the terrace. I should like to
know, however, if the young man was cured of his
delirium, but I have no idea that he will ever be
cured of his dislike to authoresses.
An interruption, occasioned by my being asked
for in the parlor, made me drop my pen for a moment. Descending thither, I found a lady.plainly
dressed in black, and looking very sad. Without
speaking, she handed me a sealed note: it was a
letter of recommendation.  I had before me evidently some great suffering to relieve, but I did not
know whether it was a case of destitution, or of misfortune in some other form. While I was reading
the note, the poor woman covered her face with her
handkerchief: her daughter, I read, is among the
prisoners of St.-Lazare!
O mothers, who lhave not bread to give your
children, how often have I wept for you! but to-day
I am made acquainted with a wretchedness still
more profound. It is that of a mother crushed with
shame under the weight of a daughter's disgrace.
MIy heart is broken, Marie; this woman's sorrows
have moved my inmost soul; I could not find one
word of consolation to give her; but I promised
her to watch over her erring child, until the penalties of the law shall be fulfilled in regard to her,
and she shall be free to leave the prison.




TEE VISION.              119
September 16th.
I found, to-day, one of the inmates seated at the
bottom of the stairs, crying with all her heart. To
let me pass, she was obliged to move, and I paused
to say to her:
"Tell me, young woman, why are you crying
so'?
She wiped her eyes with a cambric handkerchief
trimmed with lace, and replied:
"I am crying because I have no money to pay
the washerwoman, who has taken my linen away as
security."
" You must work and earn it, then."
Looking up to me, she said:
"I beg pardon, madame, I thought it was one of
the sisters I was speaking to."
As she stood two or three steps from me, arranging her neck-handkerchief very carefully over her
bosom, I noticed that she wore the prison costume,
with tile exception that instead of the " sabots," or
wooden shoes, her feet were covered with bootees
of rose-colored satin. She continued:
"Madame, we are unlucky; it is all over with us
girls, our business is ruined. Certain women, called
honest, come too much in competition with us.
They, in fact, enjoy more fireedom  than we do.
Law is not always justice; the police hold uts under
surveillance; all right, we do not complain; but
they ouglht, also, to give an eye to others. We are
forbidden to go out with our heads uncovered, while
women of fashion are allowed to show themselves




120      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
half naked at private balls and at public entertainments; and so, they attract customers that would
otherwise come to us."
It was a courtezan who thus spoke, and her
words were the most withering rebuke that could
possibly be administered to the manners and fashions of our day. This girl was still young, but
already faded, and a dark line encircled her lustreless eyes.
"Poor child," said I, "would you not do better
to abandon a life so criminal and low? "
"It is impossible, madame; once engaged in this
manner of living, we must follow it to the end. We
live outside the pale of society: honest people keep
aloof from us; no one will furnish us with work;
we must keep on as we have begun, or else die of
hunger on the streets."
Alas! perhaps there is too much truth in what
she says. I left her and passed on.
September 17th.
Do not suppose, dear friend, that the entire population of St.-Lazare is supplied by Paris alone. The
provinces also send thither a large number. Multitudes of young girls from the different departments
of France enter the capital, only to be lost. They
come to Paris in search of work, and they encounter only corruption. They come thither, virtuous,
and ignorant of evil, but poverty overtakes them,
and temptation leads them astray. The result is,
that they finally find their way here. If the people




THE VISION.               121
of the provinces only knew Paris as it is, never
would they send their children there. Boys may
pass unharmed, perhaps, but girls...!
Why leave the country, with its pure air, its
bright sun, its broad liberty, and its modest gains,
which are, after all, sufficient to supply all necessaries, in order to repair to this great city, where the
air is so gross, where work is often so difficult to
find, and where life is worn out so quickly? The
attraction is the prospect of making a little money;
but, for one that becomes better off, how many
there are who drag out their lives in poverty? It
is frightful to think of the numberless dangers that
young persons who are alone, inexperienced, and
exposed to so many temptations, incur.
A young woman, well brought up, once set out
from her home in the country, for Paris, where she
was to live with an aunt. Her mother was imprudent enough to permit her to travel alone, because
it had been arranged, previously, that her friends
should be in waiting for her on her arrival at the
station in Paris. In the course of the journey, a
slight accident occurred, so that the cars, instead
of arriving at eight o'clock in the evening, did not
reach Paris until eleven. Not expecting the train
at so late an hour, her friends had not waited for it;
she found herself, therefore, on her arrival, alone,
and in a position of great embarrassment. A gentleman, seeing her perplexity, addressed her very
politely, and offered her accommodations for the
night. The poor child accepted the delusive hospi6




122      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
tality offered. The next day, the police arrested
her, and now she is in St.-Lazare. Her mother will
long repent the imprudence of which she was guilty.
There are women, too, whose: base calling it is
to attend railroad-stations, to waylay young girls,
and bring them to houses of perdition. They offer
them work, which the poor creatures gladly accept,
only to embrace dishonor. Those infamous houses
called "maisons de tole'ance" depend almost entirely on stratagem for recruiting their inmates, and
this in spite of the active vigilance of the authorities. In every place where numbers of young girls
may be met with are to be found those terrible harpies, the proprietors of such houses, hovering around
in search of victims.
How it pains me to write these lines, Mlarie;
these are details that revolt and sadden me. Pardon me for setting them before you; I do so because
I judge them useful. We must know where the
evil is, in order to be able to battle against it. It
is necessary to warn young persons of the dangers
in their path, of which they are ignorant, in order
that they may take means of escaping them. They
should learn that, in their case,' distrust is the
mother of security.
As I was passing through the corridor appropriated to those who have undergone sentence, I perceived a convict standing apart from the others;
her lips were tightly compressed, and her eyes fixed
upon the ground; her cheeks wore a sickly pallor,
and her dejected countenance betrayed deep trouble.




THE VISION.                123
For an instant I experienced toward her a feeling
of involuntary aversion. WVhen the sister saw me
looking at her, she said to me:
"That is one of the class called transferred"
(tracnsjferes).
" How transferred? "
"This one, for instance, after awaiting her trial
for three months, has been condemned to two years'
incarceration in the central prison.  She is now
awaiting removal. Sometimes the exigencies of the
service occasion a delay of eight to fifteen days
after their trial, before the prisoners really undergo
transfer, and during this period they may be sent
for at any hour of the day or night. The vehicle
in which they are placed contains separate locked
compartments, and each prisoner is supplied with
bread for the journey, be the journey long or short,
for she is not allowed to leave the prison-carriage
until her destination is reached. You may easily
recognize this carriage, from  its being painted a
maroon-color; it is ventilated at top, but has no
windows. One officer sits within, and a single
driver occupies the box. If part of the journey be
by rail, the carriage is placed on a truck, and thus
proceeds on its way without further derangement."
I thanked the sister for these details, and desired
to know the crime of this particular transferee. It
seems that an interesting history is connected with
the crime of this odious creature.
I will relate it to you:




THE SNARE.
ADELINE was-a girl of eighteen, tall and beautiful in figure. Her life had been passed in a little
village, in the south of France. Her father was a
man of superior mind, and of deep learning, and she
was his only child. He had himself undertaken the
care of his daughter's education, but the study of the
sciences alone was not entirely to the taste of Adeline, who found much difficulty in applying herself
to her books; she preferred free life in the open air, a
life of independence and adventure among her native
mountains. Her father's possessions lay at the foot
of the Pyrenees, or rather in a gorge of those mountains, where he had built a charming villa, in which
he was accustomed to pass the summer months.
Adeline accompanied her father in the chase, and in
his long walks, and thus became familiar with the
torrents, abysses, and precipices, with which those
mountain-passes abound.
TIer father would carry her books in a small
travelling-satchel, which the scholar would leave in
the crevices of some rock, and readily forget. She
preferred to study the azure sky, or the lofty mountains-to admire the pines, spreading their great
arms across the ravines, or the wild-flowers which




THE SNARE.               125
exhaled their sweet perfume beside the laughing
waters of the cascade. 3More agile than the chamois, she climbed the steepest rocks, and leaped the
fissures; then, running until out of breath, she
would suddenly pause to await the arrival of her
father. She would next seat herself upon the carpet
of grass, and call to mind the forgotten books, the
lessons she had promised to learn.
The father arriving, would bring the books which
he had perhaps found by mere chance, where she
had left them; choosing the vicinity of a limpid
stream, they would breakfast with an appetite
which the pure air of the mountains alone could
create. The master commenced his lessons, asking
questions and furnishing the replies himself. Or,
learnedly expatiating on the phenomena of Nature,
he would describe the formation of the primitive
rocks, the mysteries of electricity, or the laws that
govern the atmospheric currents, and the like.
Finding the child's attention fixed, the father
would continue:
"In Paris, the capital of France, there are
schools where all the sciences are taught; there, are
to be found men who have measured the heights of
our mountains, analyzed the waters of our springs,
classified our animals and rocks."
The child, before so gay and playful, would now
become pensive, and say to herself:
"Science is but of little avail to me, I can never
comprehend it; but how I should like to know those
learned men-to see Paris!"




126      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Thus the man made himself a child, and the child
aspired to maturity, and both would enter into deep
reveries, until the sun, fast sinking behind the high
mountains, gave them warning that it was time to
return to the villa.
Resuming their way by paths scarcely perceptible, they would reach home, overcome with fatigue, but so happy!  Adeline, as she entered
the garden-walks of their home, would meet her
mlother, a gentle creature, who complained to her
husband that he was rearing the child like a peasant.
After a joyful embrace, the mother would reprove
her for her disordered dress, and contemplate with
dismay her sunburnt hands and face.  Adeline,
returning her caresses, would laughingly receive
her mild complaints, and promise to be more carefill of herself in future, but afterward give occasion on the first opportunity, for renewed expostulation.
Such was the manner of life led among the
mountains, until a breach in the fortunes of the
family brought about a change.  The father was
obliged to sell his pretty villa, and Adeline said to
herself:
"My father and mother, with their little remnant of fortune, will be able to live comfortably, but
I should be a heavy charge on them: I must go and
earn my own living."
She was by nature self-reliant and courageous;
in one night her course was determined upon.




THE SNARE.               127
Adeline knew a former resident of the neighborhood,
who had long lived in Paris, and who at rare intervals returned to visit her native village. On these
occasions her exterior was that of one in opulent
circumstances, and it was said that she had made a
large fortune in the silk-trade. Adeline quietly procured her address, and wrote to her, soliciting an
engagement, or any employment whatever.  An
answer was soon received, promising a lucrative
position immediately.  Foreseeing the resistance
that her father and mother would naturally make to
this arrangement, the young girl left her home without notifying them of her intentions, charging a
friend to break the news when she should be far
away.
It was evening when she arrived in the capital,
and the old lady, according to agreement, was at
the station to meet her. Taking Adeline by the
hand, she led her beneath the light of a street-lamp,
and took a rapid survey of her; she was struck with
her beauty. They immediately entered a carriage
in waiting, and were conveyed to a mansion of
elegant appearance.
Entering here, Adeline found apartments furnished with every luxury, and was shown to a chamber for herself, in keeping with the rest, where a
good dinner was shortly served up to her on a little
table. Adeli-ne dined alone, and ate but little: the
appearance of her lady-friend did not please her;
she felt in her heart an inexpressible misgiving on
first entering the house.  The memories of her




128      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
home and her childhood passed through her mind,
clothed in vivid colors; she looked around her and
reflected how much more beautiful was the green
carpet of the Pyrenees than the splendor of the
Wilton beneath her feet.
While the tears were flowing at the thought of
her dear mothel, the mistress of the house came in
to. see her. She embraced her affectionately, and
urged her to retire, and give herself the repose she
needed. An old servant-maid, coming to do the
work of the room, glanced at her curiously. The
latter was soon dismissed, and her mistress shortly
followed. Then the young girl threw herself upon
her knees, said her prayers as usual, and lay down
to rest.
-Ier sleep was troubled; the silk drapery of her
alcove appeared to stifle her. Two or three times
she suddenly awoke and sat up in bed, to listen.
She thought she distinguished sounds of laughter,
the clinking of glasses, in short, all the indications
of a midnight revel in prlogress. When she fell
asleep again, she was visited by sinister dreams.
At the return of day, no sound was to be heard
throughout the house. Adeline arose, and, looking
for her clothes, perceived that the servant had taken
away her dress and shawl. In place of the former,
she found a morning-gown of white silk, trimmed
with rose-colored ribbon, spread out over an armchair, but she would not touch it. Dressing herself
as she best could in her remaining garments, and
throwing her night-dress over her, she went to the




THE SNARE.               129
door. Finding it locked, she rang the bell, and sat
down on the side of the bed to await a reply. The
maid-servant appeared, bringing a waiter with coffee, rolls, and butter. A little silver-handled knife,
with a pointed steel blade, lay beside her plate.
"I want my dress," said Adeline to her.
"Mademoiselle," said she, "it was very much
soiled by travel. Will you not have the kindness,
meanwhile, to put on this morning-gown? Madame
will soon rise, and then orders will be given to have
your trunk opened."
The old woman left the room, but Adeline had
no wish for food. She buried her face in her hands,
and began to ponder deeply. While thus occupied,
the door was noiselessly opened, and a stranger
glided into the room. His hat was on his head, he
had a cigar in his mouth, and he coolly seated himself in a chair, and crossed his legs. Slight as was
the noise made by his entrance, Adeline perceived
it, and looked up. While she regarded the stranger
with a look of stupefaction, he on his part inspected
her attentively. HIer black hair hung in profusion
over her white shoulders, which no vulgar gaze had
ever before rested on; her eyes, slightly distended
by alarm, flashed also with indignation, and her
half-opened lips curled with disdain.
"Sir," said Adeline, "by what right do you dare
enter my chamber?"
The stranger only replied:
" They have not deceived me. You are indeed
a marvel of beauty."




130      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
The young girl drew her night-dress closely
round her, and, stepping before the stranger, said to
him:
" Sir, leave my room!"
" Oh! by no means. I am at home, here, as well
as you."
" Then," replied Adeline, "I shall leave you in
possession," and, hastening to the door, tried to open
it. Impossible, it was securely fastened from without.
A giddiness seized Adeline, and, overcome with terror, she commenced to cry aloud for help.
"Now, young woman, a little less noise, if you
please. Well, the crazy fit is on; I shall wait until
it is over."
-" I am not crazy."
"Then you are playing the honest woman; we
know all about that."
At these words a horrible thought crossed the
mind of the young girl. She turned to the stranger,
and said, appealingly:
"Sir, have yola a sister, or a mother? Then, in
the name of that -mother, tell me in what house I
am! What place is this?"
At the bottom of the vilest heart there is always
a silent chord that responds to the remembrance of
a mother, and awakens in the heart better impulses,
at least for the moment. The stranger took his hat
from his head, and, bowing respectfully, replied:
"WVe are in a house, to which the approach,
even, is interdicted to respectable females, miss."
"You are an honest man, sir. You will save me,




THE SNARE.               131
protect me, and aid me to leave this house. I have
been brought here through an infamous plot. I
have just arrived in Paris. I am a stranger, and
not wicked. I am an honorable girl. Have pity
upon me!"
At this, the stranger seated himself again, saying:
"Miss, you play your part with all the skill of
an accomplished tragedienne. You could make your
fortune on the stage. Even were this all true, no
one would believe you. Upon my word, you are
too handsome."
At these words, the fears of Adeline gave place
to the courage of the child of the mountains. She
bounded toward the door, seized the knob, and shook
it violently, but without avail; she then endeavored
to reach the window, but the stranger barred the
passage. At this she uttered shrill cries, but her
cries received no answer. The stranger approached
her. The young girl drew back against the wall,
and casting a look of despair around the room,
caught sight of the little knife lying on the table.
She seized it, and raising it, exclaimed:'Sir, if you advance one step nearer, I will plant
this knife in your heart!"
There was an air of such energetic resolution in
her gesture and manner, and in the tone of her voice,
that the stranger drew back, judging it not prudent
to attempt further aggression. He gave two knocks
on the door, which caused it to open immediately,
and he withdrew without loss of time. In passing
through the housei he met its mistress.




132      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
c" Take care of yourself, old woman," cried he;
C' you are making business for the police."
Meanwhile, Adeline, finding herself free, hastily
followed, resolved on escape. The house, so lately
in profound quiet, was now entirely aroused, and at
every door Adeline encountered fresh obstacles to
her exit. Pushing aside whomsoever impeded her
path, she made her way into the street, half clad,
with hair dishevelled, and almost beside herself with
anger and terror.
It was but eight in the morning, and directly
opposite the dwelling was a shop, which was just
being opened for the business of the day. The poor
girl startled the assistants as if a bomb-shell had
fallen among them, by her sudden appearance in
their midst. She requested shelter and protection:
the young women of the establishment surrounded
her immediately, and supplied her with requisite
clothing, after which the police were sent for. Adeline deposed to the facts: a descent was made upon
the house, the mistress was arrested and imprisoned
at St.-Lazare, and the establishment was broken up.
Its mistress is the same person whom I have
spoken of as having been condemned to two years
in the central prison, to which she is to be transferred this morning. Will you not admit with me,
MIarie, that she has well merited her punishment?
As to Adeline, you will wish to know what
became of her. Well, she is cash-keeper in the
same store where she had sought refuge. The proprietor of the establishment, filled with admiration




THE SNARE.               133
for the conduct of this brave young girl, bestowed
upon her this honorable'position. Adeline is very
happy, and every month she sends one-half of the
amount of her salary to her father. These little
sums he lays by, in order that he may some day
purchase back a portion of the grounds that were
formerly attached to his villa in the Pyrenees.
Adeline made one singular condition on entering
upon her new employment,, which was, that she
should be allowed the time requisite for occasional
attendance at the public lectures given in Paris by
men of science. In the assemblies which our celebrated men draw around them, one may sometimes
see a young lady, simply but tastefully dressed,
occupying a seat near the front, and following the
speaker with the closest attention. When his eloquent voice has ceased to fill the hall, the young
woman seems to awaken as from a dream, and murmurs, as she brushes away a secret tear:
"I seemed to hear the beloved voice of my
father once more, reechoing among the recesses of
the Pyrenees!"
Young women, in whatever snare you may find
that you have fallen-daughters, to whatever base
stratagem you may be in danger of becoming victims-remember Adeline!  Arm  yourselves with
courage in behalf of your honor, and defend yourselves!




THE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION.
TIE correctional department forms the third sectionl of St.-Lazare, and is, so to say, a prison within
a prison. Its young inmates are entirely separated
from the inmates of the other sections, and have no
portion of the establishment in common with them,
except the court and the chapel, as they have their
own shops, dormitories, and refectory. The portion
of the building occupied by this department is the
left wing, looking out upon the first court. Interiorly it is arranged in two divisions, " La Correction Paterrnelle," and "La Correction _Duval."  In
the department of paternal correction there are none
confined but young girls, placed there by their own
families, and who generally remain until they are
twenty-one years of age. Their number varies from
fifty to eighty. The "-Duval Correction," so called
from the name of the chief of police, who was its
founder, is composed of young girls arrested by the
police. At most, the number does not exceed
twenty, and sometimes they are confined for only a
short time.
These young girls are very difficult to manage,
and give more trouble to the religious than any
other class. They sleep in dormitories, divided into




THE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION.    135
cells two yards square, and are entirely isolated
froi one another; but this does not prevent their
indulging in a whispered conversation, by means of
a wire lattice inserted in the wall at the foot of the
bed, which, perhaps, will be replaced hereafter by
glass, made to move at will. Each cell contains
only a small bed and a stool. A door opens upon
the long corridor on which the cells are situated.
At the side of each cell-door may be seen a board,
upon which are deposited a vessel of water and a
napkin. Much has been said against the system of
solitary confinement, and perhaps with reason; it is
something dreadful for young people to live alone:
however, it is but just to say that these young girls
would gain nothing at all, in point of morality, by
living in unrestrained association.
October 1.st.
On leaving the "Correction," I returned through
the corridor of the " Pistoles," and stopped before
the cell of Clemence. I had neglected to visit her
for some time, and now I found her cell empty: she
had left St.-Lazare.
Marie, we have one inmate condemned to death,
which is of very rare occurrence here; she was sentenced yesterday. Immediately afterward, she was
brought from the "_Palais de Justice" in a prisonvan, and in such a condition of weakness that she
had to be carried into the prison in the arms of the
assistants. She fell three times, in mounting the
stairs conducting from the office to the rooms of the




136      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
community. She uttered the most piercing cries,
and it would have melted your heart to hear her;
finally, she was conducted to a cell, where two sisters were placed to keep watch over her. They did
all they could to console her, but to no effect. She
was inaccessible to consolation, and remained seated
all night upon her bed, with her eyes fixed, and her
hands tightly clasped. The veins of her neck were
extremely swollen. From time to time she raised
her hand to her head, and a painful trembling affected her whole body, while from her throat
escaped the most frightful rattling noise.
The sisters passed the whole night in ministering
to her wants, and praying for her. I met one of the
sisters this morning, and she looked very much worn
from fatigue. She said to me:
"It is frightful to behold such suffering; God
alone can relieve her despair; all our care has
availed but little; still, we continued to pray, and
she has now become somewhat more calm."
This prisoner is one who, though young, has
dipped her hands in human blood, and certainly
merits the sentence of death which has been pronounced upon her; one can but hope, however, that
her sentence will be commuted to imprisonment for
life. In our days, it is extremely rare that a woman
is guillotined.




THE DUNGEONS.
THE dungeons of St.-Lazare are situated on the
fifth floor in the right wing, and are eight in number. The cells are small, only two or three yards
square, with a window very high up. The inlaid
floors are painted stone-color, and are very clean.
The furniture consists only of a camp-bed-one end
being slightly raised to serve for a pillow, without
either hair or straw mattress, and but two covers
are left for the use of the inmate. The door is fastened with a large lock, and a little opening, of about
four inches in diameter, called a jucla, is placed in
the door. These cells were constructed by the present administration, within the last five or six years.
The first dungeon that was opened for my inspection was empty. I seated myself for a moment
on the little camp-bed, and I must confess that it
was very hard. Some picturesque inscriptions were
legible upon the walls, written, most likely, with a
nail or a hair-pin. One reads as follows:
"They have confined me in this dungeon because
I took a frolic."
And another, as follows:
"Andielo is a good girl; she behaved badly




138      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
with her companions, but she never was wanting
in respect to her superiors, and she loves the
sisters."
Other inscriptions resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics, and could not be deciphered. This is the
only dungeon where the walls were written upon.
As to the others, when they are disfigured or soiled,
they are immediately covered again with paint, and
the expense is deducted from the money deposited
in the treasury by the inmate on entering; but the
first-named dungeon is appropriated exclusively to
young girls from the department of correction, and
of course they have no money to deposit.
I looked into the second dungeon, through the
little opening I have spoken of, and saw the inmate
in profound sleep. She was completely enveloped
in the bed-covering, and appeared like one dead. I
requested that she might not be wakened, but the
sister who accompanied me opened the door, notwithstanding. The woman moved, and in doing so,
the wooden shoe, which she had placed under her
head as a support, fell to the floor; whereupon she
stood up, with the covering draped around her, looking like a spectre. I did not enter.
In the third dungeon was confined a young girl
but fifteen years of age. She was sitting completely
motionless, with her hands enveloped in her wrapper.
The religious said to me:
"'This child is very bad, and we have nothing to
encourage us with regard to her future. It required
four of the keepers to bring her to this room, and




THE DUNGEONS.              139
she continued to resist until the strait-jacket was
put upon her, which we kept on for two hours."
I was shown the strait-jacket. It is made of
very coarse linen, and is of a shape to fit the waist,
and is fastened by leather straps with iron buckles.
The sleeves are very long, and have no opening at
the end, but terminate in cords, with which the
hands are fastened together at the back. I looked
closely at this girl; she had chestnut-colored hair
and brown eyes, a fair complexion, and rosy cheeks;
I could not call her homely, though her forehead
was low, her eyebrows were knitted, and she was
constantly biting her under lip. This made her an
unpleasant object to look at.  Iow true that anger
is unbecoming to the face of a woman!
In the fourth dungeon was another young girl,
whom we found upon her knees on the floor; she
had a book opened upon her bed, which thus answered the purpose of a desk. This young girl was
graceful, and appeared very sweet, if not really stylish, in her manners; she rose up and saluted me
very politely. I immediately remarked her looselyflowing wrapper, and asked the sister the reason.
She replied:
" iMadame, I always remove the belts attached
to the wrappers of those inmates confined in dungeons; for, when they are very wicked, it is easy for
them to injure themselves with the iron buckle."
This religious is in fact not so much the custodian
as the mother of the inmates. It is she who brings
them their food, opens their windows to give them




140      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
fresh air, and provides them with bed-covering and
books. She said to me:
"I suffer greatly when I am obliged to shut up
these children; they appreciate my feelings, and
close their own doors, so that nothing is left for me
to do but turn the key."
Meanwhile, as the young woman remained standing, I ventured to interrogate her, as follows:
"What is your name?"
" Julia."
"For what offence are you confined in this dungeon?"
"It is six months since I came to St.-Lazare, and
this is the first time I have been punished in this
manner. If you please, madame, I forgot myself,
and became insolent; but I am willing to submit to
my punishment."
I looked at the book which she held in her hand,
and saw that it was the life of St. Francis Regis.
Julia said to the religious:
"I have finished reading this book; I thank you
very much, sister; it has given me great pleasure;
it is so tiresome to have nothing to do for several
days in succession."
The religious explained that those confined in
the dungeons were deprived not only of work, but
of the use of books from the library, therefore she
lent them her own.
There was but one more dungeon occupied, in
which we found a woman seated upon the floor,
leaning her head on her hands. A crust of bread




THE DUNGEONS.              141
lay upon the side of the bed; a pitcher of water
and an empty cup stood on the floor. I entered,
and, as the girl looked up, I saw that her eyes were
filled with tears.
"Why do you weep?" asked I.
"Because they have shut me up in St.-Lazare,
and I have done nothing to merit my punishment;
I am innocent."
"Indeed! all the other inmates I have met acknowledge that they have done something to deserve
punishment. Moreover, why have you been confined in this dungeon?"
" I slapped the face of one of my companions."
"That is a grave offence, and does not happen
very often; but what had your companion done to
provoke this fault? "
"She insulted me by saying that I was convicted at the grande justice."
" Explain what you mean by the grande justice."
"In the language of St.-Lazare, the grande justice is the higher court; the police tribunal is called
Petit justice. When I was sent to this dungeon, I
rebelled, but sister came to me, and she spoke so
sweetly that, without understanding one word of
what she was saying to me, I followed her; in truth,
I do not know why this good little sister fascinates
me: I never would have followed the officer."
I pressed the hand of the religious, who smiled
and said:
"I spare these children all the punishment in my
power."




142      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
I then turned toward the girl, and continued:
"What is your name?"
" Catherine."
" For what were you imprisoned in St.-Lazare?"
"I was accused of theft; I was a domestic, llmy
mistress was difficult to please, and I intended leaving her service; they searched my linen, and found
two old pieces of worn clothing belonging to my
mistress, and in the corner of my chamber they also
found an old umbrella for the use of the kitchen. I
swear to you, madame, that I knew nothing of the
clothing, or how it came where it was found: but,
upon the accusation of my mistress, I was sentenced
to one year's imprisonment for robbery (vol dce
contfince). My misfortune was, madame, to have
changed my position in life."
" Then you have not always been a domestic?"
" No, madame."
" Why did you enter that condition?"
"It would take a long time to tell."
"That does not matter! Go on and tell us all
about it."
The sister leaned against the door, the prisoner
seated herself again on her heels, and I placed myself on the side of the camp-bed, while we listened
to Catherine's story, which was as follows:




THE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.
"MADAMIE, I am a child of Paris, born in the
sixth story of a house in the Faubourg de St. M3artin.
IMy mother was a washer-woman, and washed linen
for a family, living at the remote end of the same
quarter in which we lived. I do not rememnler my
father, but I believe he was dead when my little
sister was born. I have a brother younger than
myself, which made three children in all.  My
mother was a strong woman, and capable of accomplishing the labor of two in earning her children's
bread.
" Our only room was scantily furnished, containing but a trundle-bed, an old trunk, and some few
utensils for housekeeping; but my mother kept
every thing very clean, for water was always abundant with us. Mother washed our faces every morning with a napkin taken from the first package of
soiled clothes brought to our room, and, by way of
smoothing our hair, simply passed her hands through
the tangles, and so made our toilets after her own
fashion, while we smothered her with kisses. She
baked the potatoes, our invariable breakfast, in the
fire made to heat the water in the clothes-boiler.
"A'fter my mother had gone to the great boat




144      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
on the St. Mialrtin Canal, to rinse the linen, we had
our frugal meal. Htow we played, and what plays!
How we laughed, and what laughs! Sometimes we
made too much noise, for which we caught now and
then many a rap from a neighbor, but we parried it
off as best we could, by raising our arms above our
heads.
"To dry the clothes, my mother would open our
window, before which was suspended a cord to hang
the clothes upon, and through which the sun entered
with its warm rays, and the soft breeze. A neighbor of ours had a goldfinch, which sang for us as
well as a nightingale, for we were -too poor to have
one of our own. We were as quiet as angels while
this little singer was delighting us with his warbling, but we could not see it. I often said to my
brother:
"' When I grow large enough, I shall work, and
will have money to buy a bird which shall sing entirely for us. Then we can see him, and we will
feed him with the crumbs left from our potatoes.'' When my mother left us to go to the boat, she
installed me as guardian over the family, and warned
me not to go near the fire. I was obedient, for I
was the oldest, and already understood that I must
take the place of my mother, in watching over my
young brother and little sister. We were very
lonely; for we could no longer hear the sweet song
of the little goldfinch, as our mother had carefully
fastened down the window before going out; but,
when we got older and wiser, my mother often took




THE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.        145
us to the boat with her, bareheaded and scantily
clothed; even stockings we did not have, to protect
our feet from the cold. My brother often jumped
astride of the banister, and slid down even to the
entrance, notwithstanding my mother's strict commands that he must not indulge in such a dangerous amusement. I carried in my arms my little
sister, who was almost as heavy as myself.
"' My mother attached to her shoulders a basket,
made to be carried on the back, filled with wet
clothes, and now, every thing being ready, we would
go together to the canal. Sometimes we got very
wet, for the water came up to our knees, but we were
never sick, or took cold. God gives every comfort
to the children of the rich, and health to the children
of the poor: so, no one is left in this world without
some good inheritance. We were called'the children of the river.'
" You may not believe it, madame, but the most
agreeable memories of my childhood are connected
with the scenes around that great boat, with their
noise and outcries. The swift-running water, sparkling in the sunshine, in which we rinsed our clothes!
The innocent laugh and glee of my brother and little sister, as they played around the bucket of warm
water from which I was wringing the pieces my
mother had given me, and which I hung upon
wooden bars to dry! I grew up in this manner.
Mly brother was then placed at scohool, my sister
was promoted to watch the fire under the boiler,
and to cook the potatoes, while I worlIed Jwith my
7




146      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
mother. Ah i the good times we had!-the hearty
poundings we gave the clothes with our beetlesour joyous laughter I We were now a little better
dressed too; we earned the wages of two persons,
and my sister, when left to take care of the house,
was no longer alone, for she was the proud possessor of a goldfinch.
" Happy years pass quickly; suffering only
makes time seem long to us. One night, my poor
mother lay down on her bed, never to rise again.
When she was dead, the sadness of our little home,
always before so gay, was dreadful! While my
mother lay stretched lifeless, where she had died,
we wept in quiet grief, but, when the undertaker
came to prepare the body for the grave, we uttered
the most despairing cries.  ily brother seated himself at the feet, to prevent him from carrying her
away. fMy little sister took one corner of the winding-sheet., and wrapped it about herself, begging
them to put her into the coffin with her mother. I
covered my face with my hands, my soul was torn
with anguish; I was indeed beside myself with
grief. The neighbors, attracted by our sobs, came
and took us to their rooms, while the dear departed
was being carried away. When we returned, we
were indeed orphans. When we beheld our little
attic room empty, we were speechless in our sorrow,
and the notes of the goldfinch alone were heard!
"Without saying a word, I advanced and opened
the door of his cage; he flew around us, and then
lighted on the bed, on the spot marked with the




THE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.         147
impress of my mother's form, and sang to us his
last song. I opened the window, he extended his
gayly-colored wings and left us; we followed him
in space for a moment with our eyes, then he disappeared forever.  M3y little  sister whispered:' Catherine, he has gone to join our mother.' Since
then, whenever we hear a goldfinch sing, we begin
to cry.
"My orphans had to be f&eI, but my wages at
washing did not suffice for their support. MIy landlady said to me, one day:'Catherine, you must go
out to service, your wages will enable you to pay
for the apprenticeship of your brother and sister,
and you yourself will fare better, and will have less
trouble.'
"I wept at the thought of losing my liberty,
but no matter. My brother was apprenticed to a
good man, who furnishes his food and lodging,
leaving me with only his clothes to provide. My
sister went into a workshop, under the care of
religious, and they will make a good workwoman
of her. A place was found for me in a family where
there was not much to do, but where I would receive good wages. When the time finally came for
us to be separated, our grief was renewed, for we
hal never bee-n parted before.
"I had to confine myself to a kitchen, and I
found it very hard: I had no air, and the water was
measured out to me, as water is dear in Paris; alas!
I had always been accustomed to the abundance




148      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
which the limpid waters of the river afforded. I was
in suffering, I was awkward, I broke my mistress's
china, she scolded me, and then I would cry bitterly.
" My room was in the sixth story. One night,
while I was crying more than usual, an old cook
who occupied the chamber next to mine, hearing me,
got up and rapped at my door.
"'  Ah! child, what are you crying for?' said she.
"'I am crying because I cannot do my work
well, and am scolded every day.'
"'You must not cry, you must answer back.'
"'  Do you think that is right?'
"' Of course, you must give these people some
reason to scold, if scold they will. You are chamber maid, are you not?'
"'No, I am only a general servant, because I do
not know how to do any thing in particular.'
"'You are a novice, poor girl! you stand in
need of my advice.'
"So, she came to see me every night, gave me
receipts for making several new dishes, and instructed me how to make my petits profits in service."
H1ere I interrupted her:
"What do you mean by petits profits? "
"3Madame, I mean many things: such as the
commission one gets from those who furnish articles
for the house, one sou on every franc's worth of
outlay, the sale of the dessert remaining after dinner,
and also the gains from useless articles and clothing
no longer needed."




THE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.        149
"And you accepted these gains? "
"Yes, madame, for all servants do the like."
"Very well, you are a good girl; but still you
have been stealing."
She, rising upon her feet, said:
" What is that you say, madame?"
"That you have been stealing; and that you
deserve to be sent to St.-Lazare."
"Impossible!"
" I tell you it is so. Did you agree with your
mistress that you could receive these little profits? "
"No, madame, nor did I know about these
usages when I first went out to service. But Suzon
did, and she has passed all her life as a servant.
She related to me also in the evenings many little
histories to divert my mind after the labors of the
day. In truth, she helped greatly to make me at
home in my new condition."
"Your acquaintance with this woman has been
very unfortunate for you, for she might have been
the cause of your being sent to the central prison
for several years."
"Do you tell me so, madame? But, after all,
she was a very smart woman, and used to read all
her mistress's letters, and knew all about their
affairs. One of her mistresses would fulfil an assignation, going out under pretence of business;
another used to pay for her ball-dresses out of money
destined for the poor; the third represented the
household expenses as double the amount they
really were, in order to obtain from her husband the




150      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
difference for herself; or she boriowed of her cook,
to make both ends meet at the close of the month,
when she was in debt to her shopkeepers.
"While Sazon was helping to manage her ladies'
affairs, she was not neglectful of her own; she appropriated the cast-off dresses of her mistresses to
her own use, without asking for them; when they
were not worn soon enough for her purpose, she tore
them while brushing them. She also kept a little
knife to scrape off the enamel of her lady's boots.
Madame often reproached the shoemaker, believing that it was his fault, but still the same thing
continued to happen.
"Suzon has also laid up money; and she is so
well off that she is about retiring from  service.
Perhaps she will get married, for she hlas taken
good care of herself, and is very well preserved;
her complexion is good, as she has been in the habit
of using the hygienic pomades of her mistresses.
rMoreover, the old cook has always made a friend
of every concierge belonging to the different families where she lived, for she was never niggardly
of either her master's wood or wine; her motto is,'People must live.'"
"Your Suzon, Catherine, deserves to be put in
St.-Lazare more than you do."
"You are mistaken, madame; this woman has
an excellent reputation; she is held in ligh esteem
by her masters, and is welcomed most cordially by
all shopkeepers."
"Have you followed her counsels, Catherine?"




THrE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.        151
"As much as I could."
And this, Marie, is the way the domestics of Paris are educated. I then said to the young prisoner:
"Catherine, do not cry any more, but try and
support your imprisonment without complainillg, for
you deserve it."
She hid her face in her hands, while I continuedc:
" Calculate all the little sums you have retained
from your mistress's expenses, and give me your
word that, when you leave this prison, you will return all to her."
" I promise you, madame, to do so."
"'Illicit gains will bring misfortunes to your
little orphan brother and sister. Be honest, above
all things, and God will bless you. The best riches
of the poor is a conscience without reproach, and
their highest virtue unswerving truthfulness."
The servant replied:
"Madame, what house will open its doors to nme
when I leave St.-Lazare?"
4' Catherine, you know, now, to what one may
be brouglht by a slight abuse of confidence, but you
are less culpable than many others; and, if at any
time you are without employment, come to me, and
I will find a place for you."
She clasped her hands, saying:
"In the name of the children, madame, I thank
you."
I left her then, and, still accompanied by the
religious, I redescended the narrow  stairs leading
down from the dungeons.




152      THE PRIISONERS OF ST..LAZARE.
Marie, servants have become the plague of our
days. There is need of a complete reform in their
regard. In the first place, too high wages are paid.
The domestics of Paris are usually young peasantgirls, just from the labor of the field. What is it
that attracts them to the city? It is the high prices
that we pay here. It appears certain that, if we
diminish the wages paid, we shall have fewer desertions from agricultural districts, where labor is really
in demand.
In the second place, we leave to them the disbursement of our money, and it is consequently the
general complaint that they steal. The most natural and easy way for them to rob us is to deceive
us in the matter of expenditures. The ladies themselves are responsible for this want of honesty and
fidelity. It should be one of the imperative duties
of every lady to pay the house-bills herself, and attend to her own personal outlay; and, to carry
housekeeping to its highest perfection, she should
make her own bargains.
Elegant ladies no doubt will cry out against this
innovation; but, if it were the fashion, they would
be found submitting to it without murmur. When
they shall have themselves selected in market fowls
or fruit for their table, do you suppose their guests
will dine less agreeably? We adopt so many fashions that are either unbecoming or uncomfortable,
why not for once introduce one that is useful?
Is it theft to take an article from the marketbasket (faire sacuter l'auzse du puanier)?  Yes, and




THE STORY OF A DOMESTIC.        153
justice punishes it as such, upon a simple complaint
being entered by the master or mistress. Shopkeepers who pay domestics for coming to trade with
them expose themselves to be punished as accomplices. The concierge who aids domestics in purloining provisions of any kind, or who appropriates
them to her own use, renders herself liable to the
same penalties. —These are points which are often
not taken into consideration.
Finally, we ought to treat domestics better than
we do. Why speak to them with so much hauteur?
WVe should treat them with kindness and consideration, that their condition may not be made more
uncomfortable than it is already. We should see
that they want nothing that is necessary to them,
andl we should be even liberal with them. Thus,
they will become attached to our service. WVe
ought also to watch over their morals, keep them
from dangerous occasions, and, above all, not allow
them to frequent balls of any kind. The evil consequences arising from these gatherings are incalculable. The moment a servant puts her foot inside
of a public ballroom she is on the way to ruin.
Two thousand servants, alone, enter the walls of
St.-Lazare in the course of a year.




THE INFIRMARIES OF THE SECOND
SECTION.
THE infirmaries of the second section were biuilt
in 1825. They are the most regularly-constructed
portion of St.-Lazare, and surround the last courtyard. They are of two stories, and contain sixteen
large rooms, well aired, and kept with the greatest
neatness. On the first floor, to the riglht, is a room
for those affected with skin-diseases; and at the left,
the " Hall of St.-Anne," occupied by old women who
are not prisoners. Between the two are the bathlingrooms, the apothecary's shop, and the clothes-room
of the infirmary. All these rooms are paved with
large flags, as is also the corridor, the arched roof
of which is supported by pillars.  On the upper
floor is another corridor with rooms opening upon
it. The beds are all comfortable, and each room is
provided with a little table and stool.
The inmates of this infirmary do not eat in the
common refectory; their dinner is served out to
them from the corridor on which the rooms open.
Their food is more substantial than is provided to
those in health. They are supplied with meat every day-either roast-beef, beefsteak, or cutlets, as
the physicians may order; each has five hundred




THE INFIRMIARIES OF THE SECOND SECTION. 155
grammes (eighteen ounces) of the whitest bread
daily, and a supply of wine.
Some of the prisoners, under the supervision of
the sisters, aid in the care of the sick. The costume
of these assistants is a gray dress, or rather wrapper,
secured at the waist by a belt; unlike the other inmates, they wear a white cap. They frequent no
part of' the building in common with the other prisoners, except the chapel, where they occupy the
tribune or gallery, at the time of the second mass.
The sick are attended by two house-physicians, and
by other physicians of the first eminence, from the
city, who come every day at nine o'clock in the
morning.
The infirmary, although its appearance is cheerful, is in reality the saddest spot in Paris; for, there
are to be found the poor victims of an irregular life,
with their emaciated forms, poisonous breath, and
hideous sores.  Would that the women of Paris, of
their class, could be brought to look upon this spectacle! Would that they might even once visit this
place, appropriated for their use when disease and
death shall claim them for their legitimate victims!
Marie, in passing through these halls I experienced
feelings of unutterable sorrow and sadness; I shuddered at the spectacle presented to me.
The first floor is occupied by public women. Let
us throw a veil over their past lives, and weep for
these poor creatures.  Scarcely one-ray of hope illumines their future, so difficult is it for them to rise
from the abyss into which they have fallen, even




15 6     THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
where the desire to do so exists. One of them said
to me:
"3Madame, at one period of my life I abhorred
myself. I strove to break my chains. I walked on
foot a hundred leagues to escape from  Paris. I
begged my food, and slept in barns.  I took bypaths, that I might not meet any one who could
recognize me. I desired to put the greatest space
possible between myself and the scene of my disorders. I continued to go on and on, until the sea
put an end to my route. Then, worn out with fatigue, I entered a little hotel to pass the night. The
next day I asked the4 mistress of the house for work,
when she told me that, if I wouldcl do servant's work,
she would employ me. I fulfilled the duties of a
domestic, working hard, and proving myself obedient and docile. This lasted one month, and I had
begun to live a new life, until, one day, a traveller
came, and said to the lady of the house:
"' Do you know who your domestic is?'
"'No; who is she?'
"'  Madame, she is a public girl from Paris.'
" In the eveningr I was without a home. lNo one
would believe in my repentance, and I returned to
Paris to renew my old course of life, and to die at
last in St.-Lazare."
IHot tears ran down the pale cheeks of the unfortunate girl. I felt such pity, that I involuntarily
held out my hand to her, but she drew back in surprise, while her tears hung suspended upon her eyelashes. As I continued to hold out my hand, how



THE INFIRMARIES OF THE SECOND SECTION. 157
ever, she'bent over in confusion, slightly touching
my fingers, and said:
" Madame, will you pardon me for daring to
touch your hand?"
" Poor child? " I replied, " God pardons all; why
may not honest women be compassionate to the fallen who repent? "
Marie, do not blame me. Can she, who touches
wounds that she only wishes to heal, become inoculated with their poison? The rule is, in Paris, with
women of this class, who wish to change their manner of life, and who make application to this effect
to the authorities, that they must give evidence
to the latter of possessing other means of support.
They must also find some one to go security for
them, and even then they remain all their lives under the surveillance of the police.
The second floor is appropriated to the insoumises, by which name all fallen women are designated, whose names have not been registered on the
police rolls as among the women of the town.:MNore
interest attaches to the women in this category, for
great good can be done among them. Out of one
hundred such characters, eighty might be saved, if
sufficient resources could be furnished to accomplish
so happy a result.
In general, they are very young, and are not
hardened in crime; they have been brought to St.Lazare either through poverty, abandonment, perhaps vanity, or some childish misbehavior. These
are the young women who are so often to be seen
weeping in the chapel. Some are reclaimed by their




158      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
families; others fall at the feet of the sisters and beg
an asylum of refuge; but many return to their evil
ways, and finish by becoming professional outcasts.
Dear Marie, all the insoumises of Paris are not
confined in St.-Lazare. Those are equally insoumises,
though recognized by the world as honest women,
who, under the exterior of a regular life, commit
crime by bringing dishonor under the conjugal roof;
of this class, also, are to be reckoned those young
women who deceive their mothers, and those women
in the ordinary walks of life, whose virtue is in any
degree purchasable.
Thoughtless creatures, beware! You are close
upon a fatal declivity; do you know how all may
end? You begin with a smile of coquetry, and you
will perhaps finish by realizing in your persons the
premature corruption of the grave! Once that this
path of dalliance is entered upon, you go on, you
rush forward to your fall, and at the end the winding-sheet and the bier of St.-Lazare are reached!
Miarie, these lines are for your eye alone; if
worldlings should read them, they would perhaps
cry anathema against me, as one who aims to proscribe what they call love. Love?-say rather
crime, corruption-horror! No, this is not the
scope of that high and holy virtue; it is but the
guilty instinct of vitiated nature. Love is a noble
and mysterious chain which- binds together two
hearts; it is an immaterial flame which pervades
the world for the renewal of generations. True love
never grovels in the earth; it is a pure flower which
opens to the sun!




THE-I   DEAD-HOUSE.
AFTER my visit to the infirmary, I said to the
sister:
"WlVat do you do with your dead? "
She answered:
VVWhen a prisoner dies, her body is left for two
hours in the bed where she expired. Then, one of
the house-physicians comes to verify the cause of
death, and the body is deposited in a room known
by the lugubrious title of La Cellule cles 3forts (the
dead-cell).  This room is on the ground-floor, and is
paved with stone, cold and damp. There is in it a
narrow wooden bedstead, with a straw mattress,
covered with a sheet; opposite it stands a statue of
the Blessed Virgin, relieved against a black wall,
and having over it the following inscription: "To
our Lady of a good death." In one corner lies a
roll of coarse gray linen; this is the winding-sheet
in which the bodies are enveloped.
The female servants of the institution take
charge of the bodies for burial, before doing which,
they remove from them every article of clothing
belonging to the establishment, and dress them oncemore in the clothing the deceased wore on entering
St.-Lazare. After this, the winding-sheet is thrown




160      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
round the remains, which are left where they are
until removed to the chapel. This practice is called
mettre les mortes d refroidir. The domestics carry
the corpse thither on a common bier, and the funeralservice is read over it.
At the time appointed, the body is placed on a
common bier. Descending a few steps, and passing
through a large iron door, it is deposited in a narrow
vestibule. The guardians then come and open a
small outside door, situated almost directly opposite
the amphitheatre, through which the servants pass
and place the bier upon a hand-barrow. Hence it
is conveyed, by the chemin de fer de ronde, to the
chapel.
I was present at one of these gloomy ceremonies:
it was in the early evening, but already quite dark;
four wax candles were burning, which shed a faint,
vacillating light through the deserted sanctuary,
and, as the echoing steps of the servants ceased,
they heavily deposited the litter before the altarrails.
The chaplain came; respectfully raised his black
velvet cap, and knelt before the altar; when he
arose, his white hair, in the light of the candles, became resplendent: thus the sweet majesty of prayer
appeared to preside over the gloom of death. He
commenced the office in a low voice, while two
kneeling sisters gave the responses. I stood concealed behind a pillar. The whole scene made the
most mournful impression on me; the solitude of
the dimly-lighted chapel, and the absence of friends




THE DEAD-HOUSE.            161
or relations of the deceased (for no externes are permitted to be present on these occasions), filled me
with profound sadness.
WVhen the prayers were finished, the body was
carried out, to be taken to the amphitheatre. The
candles being extinguished, e-very one slowly and
solemnly left the chapel. A vague terror overcame
me, and I hastened away.




THE AMPHITHEATIRE.
THE~ amphitheatre is a small red brick building,
fronting on the road which encircles St.-Lazare, and
surrounded by a wall about twelve feet high. Ascendillg two stone steps, you find the enclosure between the wall and the building paved with asphaltum. The interior contains two apartments, in
the first of which there are three stone tables, set at
a slight incliration, like the slabs in the morgue.
On these, the dead are deposited. In one corner
stand the bier and the litter which are used to transport the bodies.
In the other room is a round cast-iron table,
which is used for dissections or autopsies. The floor
is paved with stone, and a gutter for carrying off
water runs round the base of the walls. Two large
windows, constantly open, afford ventilation.
The spot is a sad one to visit. I very soon remarked the absence of all religious emblems: there
was not even a cross over the entrance. When I
spoke of this circumstance, I was answered that the
place was used for the dead of all religions. I also
asked why a wall was built around the amnphitheatre. A person present remarked in reply:




TEIE AMPHITHEATRE.            163
"MBadame, the windows, as you perceive, are
very low; probably the wall is to keep the dead
from escaping."
In spite of the painful impressions I experienced,
I smiled at this joke. The real reason appeals to
be, to cut off the view of the interior firom those who
might be passing outside.
The dead who are claimed by their families are
given iup to them immediately. The moment death
steps in, man's justice is satisfied. Friends, who
wish to conceal from the world that one of their
family has died in St.-Lazare, can remove the body
secretly, and have it transported to their home,
where the funeral service is performed. Friends do
not come to the amphitheatre for thleir dead, but to
the cellule cdes norts-the dead-cell.  The bodies
of those, however, who are not claimed are sent to
Clamart, and serve as subjects for dissection to the
medical students.
Poor women! Reduced to the lowest degree of
vice during their lives, they are, when dead, delivered over in the name of science to mutilation! Or,
they are buried without a coffin, wrapped only in the
coarse gray linen winding-sheet. The bodies of children, and of individuals of the class of prevenues,
who die in St.-Lazare, are not sent to Clamart, but
the authorities give them a coffin, for neither class
is ranked among the prisoners-condamn~es, properly so called.




THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.
(La Mcarchandce des Quatre Scaisons.)
AM.3roNG the prevenues there is an old woman.
She is small and thin, and is dressed in a few miserable rags, for the prevenues do not wear the St.-Lazare uniform. Her head is covered with a kerchief of
indefinite hue, from beneath which a few stray locks
of gray hair escape.
I encountered this old woman while passing
through the corridor which leads to the cells called
the pistoles, which I have already described to you
in a letter written during the month of August last.
On seeing me approach, she drew back against the
wall to make place for me to pass.
I respect old age wherever I find it, and even
more under the faded rags of poverty than in the gay
trappings of opulence, and I stopped to salute her.
As I did so, I perceived tears rolling down her furrowed cheeks, which from time to time she brushed
away with the back of her labor-hardened hand. I
said to her:
" Pr~venue, you appear to be in trouble?"
"Yes, madame, to-day is Saturday, and I have
just been to the parlor to see my daughter. It is so
sad to be separated from her."




THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.           165
"What' brings you, then, a prisoner to St.-Lazare?"
"I am here, madame, for assault and battery;
but I expect to be acquitted."
"You fighting, who seem so feeble!  It must
have been with a child, then."
"No, madame, it was with two great, strong
women; but my anger got the better of me, and I
was defending my rights, too, and that gave me
strength. I assure you, they will bear the marks
of my fist a long time."
" They gave you great provocation, then?"
" Madame, one of them has been the cause of all
my troubles. If you care to know, I will tell you
how. The other-oh! the other, God forgive her,
but as for me, I never will."
I took the old woman by the hand, and, passing
her arm through mine, gently led her toward the
anteroom  leading to the sisters' private rooms.
This anteroom is an apartment through which every prisoner passes on entering or leaving St.-Lazare. It is on the first floor,* immediately above a
similar apartment opening on the rooms of the keepers. Its furniture consists of a large porcelain stove,
a table with reading-desk on it, an oaken wardrobe,
a crucifix, some chairs, and a bench. Several spealking-tubes are inserted in the walls, to afford communication with different parts of the house.
I caused the old woman to seat herself on the
bench, while I took a chair, and said to her:
* Premi're Rtage, corresponding to the second story in America.




166      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"Now tell me some of your troubles, and perhaps I can do something to relieve them."
She shook her head doubtingly, and replied:
" M3y hopes are gone, as sure as I am a marcha'nde des qucatre saisons, though I have nothing
to say against my calling. It is a hard one, to be
sure, but I am used to hardship, and am not afraid
of work. Perhaps I had better tell you how I live,
madame. Ever since I was twenty years old, I have
been in the habit of rising at four o'clock in winter,
and in summer at three. These early hours never
injured my health, for, as you see, I have arrived at
a pretty good old age. When I rise in the morning,
I put a piece of bread in the pocket of my apron, and
start off for market, to lay in my supplies for the
day.
"Miadame, you have never seen the great market at five o'clock in the morning?  Probably
not; but you ought to-it is a rare sight. There is
no end to the bunches of onions and carrots, the
baskets of fish, the crates filled with fowls, as if it
had rained fowls; thle mountains of eggs and butter, which seem to have risen out of the earth, and
the apples-ah! madame, you should see the apples!
In the midst of all these piles of things, the dealers
are crying their goods, and the porters staggeringo
under loads heavy enough to break-an ox's back.
"The market-women are praising their stock,
and their customers running down the articles, in
order to buy cheaper. Sometimes this leads to disputes, and each abuses the other with a will. Occa



THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.           167
sionally a blow passes, here or there, and if it were
not for fear of the inspectors" (market police) " the
blow would be hard, and there would be more of
them to follow.
"This is the jolliest time of the whole clay, and
at last, by dint of hustling and pushing, one succeeds in getting through the business of marketing.
I then carry what I have bought to my little hanclcart, which is standing in a by-street. After dressing
off my chcarette with paper or with green leaves, according to the season, I arrange my stock upon it
to the best advantage. Meanwhile, hunger nips one
smartly, and you should see how I relish. my
crust.;
" In short, there I am, as happy as a queen, beginning again the round that I went over the day
before, and that I shall go over the day after. So,
I travel over Paris, rain or shine, crying:' Beans!
beets!' 2Mon Dieu! the cabbages and leeks I have
sold in my time! In fact, I would not exchange
places with a princess; for it is working, and not
the having money, that makes people happy."
-While the old woman was speaking, her countenance lightened up; the lines on her forehead disappeared, and her eyes sparkled with animation.
Never did a narrator of great exploits declaim with
more enthusiasm or pride. I experienced an agreeable surprise. It always gives me pleasure to find
one of the common people content with his or her
position in life. The old lady's last words, "It is
woorking, and not the having money, that makes




168      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
people happy," delighted me. The reflection gave
evidence of her strong good sense. Said I:
2, Well and good; you put the right value on
things, to be sure, and so you are contented."
The old woman hung down her head; her expression suddenly underwent a change. She replied:
"Madame, this is only the bright side, but then,
night comes, and sorrow with it. I have a good
daughter, who works hard, like myself, and it is a
pleasure for us to meet again, but I have a husband
who is not always what he should be, and there is
the trouble."
In uttering these words, the old woman's feelings
overcame her. The tears returned to her eyes, as
she continued:
"In former days, my husband was a worthy man,
a blacksmith by trade; and for many years he was
regular in his habits. While I went about Paris,
carrying on my trade to earn enough to keep the
house a-going, he worked too, and took care of his
earnings; we were happy, and we had laid by something. But, as it fell out, he one day met with one
of those unfortunate creatures who never work, but
who are supported by the sweat and tears of other
and better women. Since this time, our happy days
are over. No more comforts, no more peace, no
more savings.
" In spite of my work and my daughter's, distress came, for my husband now earned nothing.
At first, I did not know the true state of the case;




THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.          169
I thought he was drinking. Little by little, our few
pieces of furniture, and our little supply of clothing,
disappeared at his hands. I said to my daughter,
one day:
"'We have now nothing left, but we must conceal from the neighbors that your father drinks, and
that he has stripped us as he has, for they would no
longer respect him, and his dishonor would reflect
upon his child.'
" Then we threw ourselves into each other's arms,
and wept in silence.
" Finally, my husband would beat us, to make
us give up the little money we earned. This became known to the neighbors, and they pitied us.
So, one day, one of them came to see me, and saidcl:
"' MIre Lagory, I know where all your furniture
and clothes have gone; you must go and give the
creature a good trouncing. Yesterday she was strutting about, dressed in the Sunday clothes of your
daughter, who is now not able to go to mass, for
the want of a decent dress.'' I was not long in getting the name and address
of the woman she spoke of, and away I went.
"I met the creature on the threshold of her
door, and recognized her soon enough, for about her
shoulders she wore my wedding-shawl. Didn't I
pound her with my fist, scratch her with my nails,
and bite her with my teeth! She will carry the
marks I gave her all the rest of her dirty life! The
woman cried like a skinned cat, a thing like herself,
which knows neither how to fight nor how to work.
8




170      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Then, in short, for fear of the sergent de ville, I made
off with myself.
" As I entered my house, a little heated, I brushed
against a woman just going out. At first, I mistook
her for a lady, for she wore a silk dress, and her
bonnet was trimmed with flowers. Bah! she was a
piece like the other. The first had stolen my husband, and the second had come to steal away my
daughter. As I was about to salute her, my child
cried to me:
" Mother, don't salute that chipie.' 
"While the woman was hurrying on, my daughter, in two words, explained her errand. I ran
after the creature, and found that she and the other
woman lived in the same house. So, here was round
number two. Didn't I get hold of her silk dress
and tear it into shreds! Didn't I trample on the
beautiful flowers in her bonnet! I attempted'to
pull her hair, besides, but it all came off together,
for it was a oig.! Then I planted a blow-bang!right in her jaws, and out flew her fine teeth upon
the ground.'Aha!' said I to myself,'this will
make her remember me!' And what do you think?
After all, they were only a piece of dentist-work!
These gourgandines, one never knows where to
take them, for there is nothing genuine about them,
neither hair, nor teeth, nor heart.
"It was upon the sidewalk I gave her this overhauling. The spectators formed a ring around us,
and shouted with laughter.
* Literally, chatterbox.




THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.,          171
"Then, here comes the sergent de ville, and says:
" What, 3Mre Lagory, is it you that is drawing all this crowd?  You are breaking the peace:
you must follow me.'
".I was taken to the watch-house, then brought
before the prefect, and here I am, at last, at St.Lazare."
I found it impossible to keep a serious face while
listening to the account of these amusing battles.
I laughed with all my heart. The old woman, during the recital, had risen from her seat on the bench;
her excited gestures had caused her cap to become
displaced, and it now hung over her right ear.
Resting her fists akimbo upon her hips, she thus
continued:
" It is true as true can be, and as sure as that
you are a good lady, who is not proud toward poor
people, that I am not sorry for what I did-not a
bit. I was right. Now, was I not, madame?"
As soon as I was able to control my laughter, I
replied:
"Perhaps you were, but you know we are never
allowed to take justice into our own hands. MIere
Lagory, you are a worthy woman; I expect you
will be acquitted. You will then soon resuLme your
occupations as' la mnarchancle cldes qatre saisons,'
and, when you pass through my quarter, you must
not fail to pay a visit to my cook. I shall be happy
to see my table furnished with vegetables from such
an honest woman as yourself."
" Thank you, madame, I shall not fail to call."




172      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Several days passed; and I had forgotten the
old vegetable dealer, as one forgets so many other
things. One morning, however, as I was just finishing my breakfast, my cook entered the room in a
very bad humor.
" Madame," said she, "there is an old woman in
the kitchen, who insists that I must on your account
accept an enormous pumpkin, which I don't know
what'to do with; and I can't get rid of hler."
"c Oh! very likely, that is MeAre Lagory; bring
her in."
"  ere, madame?"
"Yes."
"But she is a market-woman."
"~ I know that."
Two minutes afterward, MIre Lagory, bearing a
great pumpkin, entered my breakfast-room.
" Good-morning, madame, how do you do? " said
she.
"Very well, and how are you? So, you are free
again?"
"Yes, madame, I was acquitted; there is such a
thing as justice, I warrant. So I went to my trade
again; and this morning, seeing in market this fine
pumpkin, I saidcl to myself,' I must carry this, as a
present to the lady who spoke so kindly to me at
the prison.' Will you please accept it,, madame?"
"Very gladly, 3'Bre Lagory. And you will take
a piece of cake, and a glass. of old wine with me,
won't you? "




THE VEGETABLE-VENDER.         1'3
"As to the cake, no, thank you, I have had my
crust already: but as to the glass of wine, that is a
different affair; that is not to be slighted: good
wine is like a good woman, the older it gets, the
better it becomes."
So saying, she emptied her glass, smacked her
lips, and wiped them with the back of her hand.
" That is better," said she, "than the gobette from
the canteen at St.-Lazare. But it will not do to
speak ill of the other, either: still, an honest woman
is much in danger of liking wine too well. I have
taken a good deal in my time, myself."
"How does the little daughter do, MlIre Lagory? "
" O madame, since I got home again, she sings
all the blessed day like a nightingale."
"Well, here is something to buy her a nice dress
for Sunday."
" Very much obliged, madame; may God reward
you!,"
"And the husband, Meire Lagory?"' "Well, my lady, he is doing better; the poor
fellow is ashamed of his conduct, and has given up
his bad ways. He is working again, and hopes to
buy me a new shawl."
MIy cook had meanwhile remained in the room,
staring with astonishment.
" Justine," said I to her, " you will always buy
BIere Lagory's vegetables, when she comes around,
and pay the price she asks."
"Yes, madame."




174      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"There is no danger of my overcharging such a
customer as you," remarked the old woman, as she
took her leave.  A few moments after, she was
pushing along her little cart, and crying, " 1eans!
beets!"
The pumpkin remained to be disposed of, and I
had it cut into quarters, and distributed among my
friends. All of them found it as excellent as I did;
there is a savory perfume about all honest people,
that communicates itself to every thing that passes
through their hands.
ilMarie, when you return to Paris you will meet,
every day, the marchandes cles qpucatre saisons.
When you do, call to mind MaSre Lagory's sentiment:' It is WOj"rCing, and not the [having money,
that makes people happy."




THE WORK-ROOMS.
THE work-rooms are ten in number, six of which
are on the ground-floor. There are two each for
the files des cours, the prevenues, and the girls of
the department of correction: one for each of the
other classes of prisoners in St.-Lazare, viz.: those
known as the flles des cours jug]~es, the transferees,
the petitesjugzes, and the rnmcaniques.
The two work-rooms for the prevenuels are on
the first floor, near the sisters' private rooms. They
are two immense halls, furnished each with a castiron stove, a raised platform for the sister in charge,
and chairs for the prisoners. The work-rooms for
the transferres, the petites jugees (those accused
of minor offences), and the illes des cours, have
benches arranged in the form of an amphitheatre,
the platform  occupied by the sister being in the
centre. This system affords great facility for watching the inmates, but the prisoners find it extremely
painful to work all day seated on a bench.  (The
seats have been made more comfortable since, by
order of the Empress Eugenie, who directed the
change after her visit to St.-Lazare in 1867.)
The work-rooms for the inmates of the department of correction are situated on the fifth floor, and




1'6       THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
are furnishel with chairs.  The shop for the mecaniTques (skilled work-women) adjoins the chapel, and
is supplied with about forty sewing-machines.  The
work executed here is of a superior kind, as there
are accomplished work-womnen to be found among
the prisoners.
All kinds of needle-work are clone at St.-Lazare,
from the under-clothing for prisoners, to the most
elegant trousscacttx.  The work of the prisoners is let
out to a contractor, who is at the expense of warming and lighting the work-rooms.  HIe receives half
the profits of the work done, the other half going to
the prison operatives.  A portion of the gains of
the latter is distributed to them weekly, the remainder is placed to their credit and given to them on
their discharge; or, should any die in prison, this
amount goes into the common treasury.  The girls
from the department of correction have no share in
this arrangement.  They receive two francs gratuity, for every twenty-four francs' worth of work done
by them in a month. To earn even this, they must
have spent but little idle time, for the work brought
to St.-Lazare is done at very moderate rates.*
The inmates are all obliged to work.  Labor of
some kind is indeed essential to their happiness.  In
the first place, it makes the period of their detention
appear shorter, while idleness would aggravate their
* The authorities of St.-Lazare have fixed a tariff of prices on
all the work manufactured there, but at rates not so low as to depreciate the value of similar work done by the work-women of
Paris.




THE WORKHOUSE.              177
punishment beyond measure. Secondly, from the
pay they receive they can procure, at fixed prices,
wine, ccqfe ait lait,'white bread, meats, etc. It is
very desirable; therefore, that they should never be
without work.
It is a noteworthy fact, dear Mlarie, that threefourths of the prisoners of St.-Lazare are without
knowledge of a trade, or of any means of making a
livelihood for themselves, many of them having
been doubtless supported by a father or a husband.
This support failing them, destitution followed, and
then vice.  The conclusion I draw from this is,
that a trade or profession is a rigid necessity for
every woman, if we would guard her moral interest. Still, I believe that, in the divine economy, it was not designed that woman should labor,
or at least labor for a stipend. Hence, labor is
always more painful to her than to man, and more
difficult to obtain. At the fall of our first parents,
God said to the woman-: "In sorrow shalt thou
bring forth children, and thou shalt be under thy
husband's power."  But He said to the man: "In
the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." It is
man, therefore, that is to labor for the support of
the family, while to the woman is left the care of
the household.
MIan abused his privileges: not content with the
power that had been granted him by God over the
woman, he reduced her to slavery. Meanwhile, he
was sufficient to himself for all his needs, and so
could take as many wives as he was able to main



178      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
tain. This is still done among nations not converted
to Christianity, as, for instance, among the Mussulmans. Christianity came, and restored woman to
her proper rank.  Her moral dignity has consequently been established and confirmed. From a
slave, she has become free; whereupon, man refuses
to assist her, and she is obliged to work for herself
in order to live.
The man who marries expects his wife to be subservient to him, and, by the terms of the law, the
wife is,bound to submit to her husband-and this is
just. The law also requires the man to support his
wife, which is just also; but the husband does not
conform to this last condition, for he seeks a wife
among those only who can bring him means, or who
are possessed of a business that will yield the woman
a:support, and may even suffice to that of a family
besides. Why may we not add, that he himself
sometimes depends upon her for his own support-a
thing nowise honorable in a man?
Under these circumstances, the woman he marries assumes the whole penalty God has meted out
to both man and woman, for not only is she under
the dominion of her husband, and bears her children
in anguish, but she eats her bread by the sweat of
her brow besides. Hence, we find many women of
wealth and of intelligence who refrain from entering the married state.
God forbid that I should say any thing that
would discourage any woman from  embracing a
state which is adapted to her nature, and is a holy




THE WORKHIIOUSE.            1T9
one besides! nor ought she to decline it, because of
the abuses existing in society; and, for my own part,
I prefer that a woman should marry, provided she
can bring with her a fortune equal to her husband's,
and will have nothing to ask from him except that
protection which the strong owe to the weak. But,
it is well to remark that, since she is now obliged
to furnish a marriage portion or its equivalent, and
that, whether married or single, she must support
herself, it is imperative that she should be familiar
with labor, or be able, at least, to adapt herself to
it. Thus, only, can she assure herself an honorable
career in life. Furthermore, by a strange anomaly,
most men are not willing to support at their own
expense any woman, unless it be one who has forgotten her dignity. I will prove what I say.
There are almost a hundred thousand abandoned
women in Paris. Who supports them? Evidently,
the men, for these women do not work to support
themselves.  Men readily spend. their means on
strange women, but they are not willing to do the
same for a lawful wife. Nor will they marry the
woman they love the best, but rather her who will
bring them the largest fortune. Hence, the lack of
union we witness between husband and wife; hence,
the illegitimate families which grow up side by side
with, and to the injury of, the legitimate ones; hence,
the numbers of young women who commence their
career in luxury and idleness, and finally die in St.Lazare.  The issue of these grave considerations
turns, therefore, on this: Shall our women be equal to




180      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
the burden of their own independent support, or shall
they not? Here is the whole question-it is one of
having means, or having a trade. It is, then, for the
interest of man that woman should work, and he is
bound to aid her in fulfilling her task in this regard.
Let us consider now what facilities exist for
women in the way of work: Hand-work is that
which suits them best, but the gains from it are
inadequate to their support. Administrative positions are not accessible to them; no employment
that the government has to give is open to them,
except occasionally a position in a post-office, a telegraph office, a tobacco-factory, or in the Bureau of
Stamps, and these offices are ordinarily filled by soldiers' widows, when given to any other than male
employes.
Now, intelligent writers for the public journals
have not scrupled to propose that women be shut
out even fiom these employments. The rule of debarring from such positions those women who have
husbands in active service already, I can appreciate;
but, to refuse them to respectable single women who
have no fortune of their own, and who have the
qualifications required for filling them successfully
-and this, for the sole reason that they are women
-is, I must say, very hard. A woman who has attained her majority, and is unmarried, is, by her
circumstances, her own mistress, and entitled to the
full enjoyment of all her civil rights. Moreover,
she helps to sustain the burdens of the state, by
her contributions, direct and indirect. Then, why




THE WORKHOUSE.-             181
has she not a right to public employment? If you
do not consider her capable of filling such offices (I
do not speak of purely political positions), in other
words, if you consider her incapable of working,
be logical, at least, and do not oblige her to pay
taxes.
As to the liberal professions, it is ivery difficult
for a woman to gain access to them. Prejudices of
every kind block up her way to this theatre of action. First, the common impression exists of her
inferiority to the other sex; it is believed, generally, that great thoughts, bold conceptions, comprehensive deductions, new views, are beyond the
range of her weaker mental organization. I think
this conclusion inexact. That her talent is entirely
diferent from that of man, is true; but that it is
always inferior, I will not admit.
To succeed in the arts, feeling and imagination
are indispensable. Now, it cannot be denied that
women possess these faculties in much higher perfection than men do. Women may then become
painters, musicians, or authors; their only difficulty
is, to bring their productions before the public.
Those only who are endowed with uncommon energy, and a rare talent, can succeed in this. For a
woman to enter upon paths usually appropriated by
men, is an enormity in the eyes of some; not only
is her talent then called in question, but sometimes
her reputation is assailed. Do you wonder that she
shrinks from this ordeal?  Be assured, Marie, a
woman must possess a reputation beyond reproach,




182      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
or she must. stand in no fear of attacks, if she would
come before the public.!
We see, then, how powerful a force is prejudice:
it is incapable of judging a work on its own merits,
but must look at both author and work together.;Now, the private life of individuals, however legitimate a place it may fill in history, is by no means a
fair subject of discussion for contemporaries. When
one presents a work to the public, the public is at
liberty to criticise it, but not its author.
Marie, I ask only for what is just-the right of
woman to labor. Would that some statesman, with
whose eloquence the walls of our assemblies are already familiar, might take up this grave question!
At the hands of such a man, it would receive its
just development: the light of his genius would
irradiate it, and its merits would become conspicuoI1s. Such an advocate would add new laurels to
those he may already have acquired, and he would
become a great benefactor, not only to womankind,
but to society at large.




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.
"TITHE DUNGEONN  F THE  ELDEST."
BETWEEN work-rooms Nos. 1 and 2, of the flles
des cours, there is a narrow, clamp passage, paved
with large stone slabs, and lighted at the farther
end by a barred window, which looks out upon the
road that encircles the premises. An old woman,
a voluntary inmate, who first came to St.-Lazare
fifty years ago, told me there was on one side of this
passage a very ancient dungeon that still bears the
name of le, cacAot des ainesses —"the dungeon of
the first-born."  It is said to be about one yard
wide, by two and a half in length, and three in
height, with a latticed iron door, and with an iron
ring in the floor, to which the prisoner was secured.
A religious assisted me in searching for it, but we
could find no traces of it. I was assured, however,
that less than ten years ago it was still in existence.
Without doubt, this was a dungeon built in the
middle ages.
I could not at all understand the designation
ainesses; however, as I believe that all traditions
have some definite origin, 1 investigated the matter,
and found that, in the time of St. Vincent de Paul,




184      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
sons who brought distress upon their homes by lives
of debauchery were imprisoned in St.-Lazare, and
especially eldest sons, and hence tile word acnesses.
The prisoner was brought hither secretly at
night, and no one outside knew what had become
of him, nor was his name made known within, to
any but the superior of the house. Every means
possible was employed to lead him back to a regular
life and to honorable conduct, and he was not returned to his friends until a complete conversion had
been effected. It is probable, then, that this very
dungeon was the one used for this puruose.
OTHER ANCIENT DUNGEONS AND THE IRON CAGE.
The former dungeons of St.-Lazare were on the
ground floor, very near the cellule des mnorts, and
alongside the bath-rooms now appropriated to the
inmates of the first section. They were dark, damp,
and unwholesome. The middle one was the iron
cage-la cage de fer-which was a dungeon constructed of iron, and into which not a breath of air,
nor a ray of light, could penetrate. It contained
only a wooden bedstead, made in the form of a
coffin. Here were confined the most insubordinate
prisoners. The spot it had formerly occupied was
pointed ott to me.
There are now but two dungeons in a state of
preservation. To gain admittance to them, one is
obliged to traverse a passage, the entrance to which
is by an iron door. I was not able to visit them,




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.    185
for the locks have become so rusted by age that no
one could turn the key. All the others have been
demolished, and their site is occupied by a large hall,
which the nurses use to dry the children's linen in.
The iron cage is still a legacy of terror to the inmates, for it was in existence but two years ago.
THE RELICS OF THE: DEAD.
It was dark, and I was returning from the chapel
through one of the interior corridors, when I encountered one of the female domestics, who said to
me:
" Madame, do you wish me to accompany you?"
"You are very kind; I thank you, no."
" You are not afraid to walk here, then?"
" 0No."
"Did you know that the dead were formerly
buried here? 
"Who says so?"
"I have seen remains myself. Some years ago,
when the authorities of the house commenced to
floor the work-rooms of the departments for the
jug#es and transfer6es, they found a large quantity
of human bones."' What did they do with them?"
"They left them where they found them."
"Are they here still-? "
"Yes, madame."
"How came they here originally?"




186       HE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"Some think that this part of the house was
built ulpon a cemetery, and that is the most probable opinion. Others suppose the bones to be the
remains of those who died in St.-Lazare during the
Revolution."
I made a sign of the cross, and walked on tiptoe
over this place of the dead.
The next day I questioned a religious upon the
subject, and she replied:
" Yes, madame, there are a great many skeletons
under the workshops of the ju'ges, and on the site
of the first court-yard. One day, when an old man
and a younger one were at work paving, I saw several skulls dug out of the ground, evidently those of
young persons, for the teeth were still sound and
brilliantly white.  Whereupon, the old man did not
dare to disturb the earth, and continued his work
without digging deeper than was really necessary.
I was told, also, that medals and other religious
objects have been found, but none were shown me."
TIIHE ANGEL OF ST.-LAZARE.-A LEGEND.
Already, in 1810, St.-Lazare was a prison for
women, who were either persons of bad repute,
criminals, or young girls placed for correction. One
day the police arrested and brought to St.-Lazare a
girl who was not yet fifteen years of age, but who
had become very wicked. She was placed in the
smallest cell in the establishment-the cell that had




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.     187
formerly been occupied by St. Vincent de Paul.
zMadeline, when left alone, wept for a long time, and
could not sleep for. fear. She could see from her bed
the lamp of the sanctuary and the reflection that it
cast upon the windows in the chapel; but her heart
uttered no prayer, for God was a stranger to her
soul. The great clock struck midnight. The light in
the church became more brilliant; little by little, it
advanced toward her, until her cell was aglow with
radiance, in the midst of which a celestial form appeared and approached the bed where the girl lay.
It was an angel with great extended wings, surrounded by a transparent cloud, but the face was
veiled. The figure took Mladeline by the hand, and
said to her:
" Arise, child, for this place is holy; thou art not
pure, and must not inhabit it."
The girl trenmblingly wrapped her garments
around her, and followed. The spirit carried Mhadeline through space; and, while they floated over
St.-Lazare, the night of ages seemed to revolve before them.
The present building disappeared, and in its
place arose the walls of an ancient monastery. All
around, the fields were covered with a luxuriant
vegetation. The galleries were thronged by religious, who were proceeding to the cllapel to chant
the evening office of the church. Others carried
upon their shoulders implements of husbandry;
while still others bore parchment-rolls under their
arms. A crowd of poor awaited alms at the gate.




1S8      TIHE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
The generation that appeared before them was one
long since passed away.
Suddenly, a swift wind blew from the north,
bringing with it a horde of ferocious barbarians,
who with their axes levelled to the ground the fruitladen trees, burned the harvest-stores, and invaded
the monastery. The poor fled, uttering cries of distress; with eyes raised to heaven, the religious awaited death upon their knees. The convent was pillaged, and the precious parchments were dispersed.
The Normans seized the riches of the monastery,
which had constituted the wealth of the poor, razed
the walls, and then fled in haste from the scene.
The monastery was an immense ruin.
Centuries roll by, and on the site of the ruined
monastery huts were erected, where persons covered
with hideous sores took refuge. Other monks replaced the first, and cared for the abandoned sufferers. Toward the east, the noise of combat was
heard. After each holy war, new cabins were raised
to shelter the lepers arriving from the country of
the sun, and who had been driven out of Paris.
In the revolution of years, still, lepers continued
to be brought to the same spot, but at last the cabins were removed, and in their place another monastery was constructed, and Madeline saw some of
the buildings raised which still exist. A society of
poor priests established themselves here, and occupied the cells that the criminals now inhabit.
One, the most humble of all, dwelt in the cell
where J3adeline had been placed.  When night




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.    189
came, he prostrated himself upon the ground and
prayed. His prayer was like a brilliant flame which
rose from  earth to heaven.  The celestial gates
opened before the young girl, and displayed the
seraphim gathering the rays of this flame into golden
censers, which they swung before the throne of God.
The brilliant light which issued thence made Madeline close her eyes, and the thought of her impure
life caused her to hide herself, blushing, under the
wings of her angel-conductor. Then the spirit said
to her:
" I am the angel of St.-Lazare. The Creator has
charged me to watch over its welfare. I come every
night to the cell of St. Vincent de Paul, to gather
up the tears and supplications of those who have
visited that holy place. The walls of that cell have
been consecrated to prayer, and one single devout
aspiration hence, suffices to render the sinner acceptable to Almighty God."
The scenes of the past continued to revolve before them. Companies of missionaries went forth
from St.-Lazare, to preach the gospel of peace to
the peasantry, or to break the bonds of the Christian
slaves among the Mussulmen. Here, too, young
Levites were consecrated to the sanctuary. Every
sorrow found alleviation at St.-Lazare, every misfortune assistance, every despairing soul consolation,
until the angry wind of violence blew upon it for
the second time.
Wicked passions were at work in the heart of
France; the foundations of the throne were sapped,




190      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
and it tottered; the columns of the sanctuary were
shaken, and the altar trembled to its base. There
was heard a violent knocking at the gates of St.Lazare; in another instant, a frenzied multitude
rushed into the convent. A scene of horror and
dismay followed; the cells were pillaged, the religious driven out, the libraries delivered to the flames;
the cellars were invaded, and men, drunk with excess of every kind, cut each other's throats in the
darkness, while the flow of human blood became
commingled with that of the wasted wine.
Death spread its sombre wings over the scene,
and the angel of St.-Lazare again wept over ruins.
At this spectacle, Madeline, shuddering with terror,
hid her pallid face in her hands. Soon, the buildings left standing were filled with victims of every
age, of both sexes, and of every rank in life, the
echoes of whose sighs, tears, and prayers, resounded
through the prisons.
A  mournful silence followed; the angel descended and placed Msadeline on her feet again
within the walls of St.-Lazare. The sounds of pillage and disorder had ceased, the prisoners of the
Revolution had already laid their heads ulpon the
scaffold. Now, guilty women overtaken by justice
dwelt here, and this once holy asylum, the witness
to many outrages and murders, has finally become
an abode of expiationl. The prisoners were locked
in slumber, and darkness reigned, while 1M9adeline
and the angel traversed the deserted halls.
The celestial visitor cast a radiance upon every




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.    191
object in his path; he scarcely touched the ground,
as he passed, and the hand of the young girl, which
he kept in his own, seemed to be the only link that
bound him to earth. He passed by the Cape-cou,
and the shadows of the dead appeared, to salute him.
An abrupt stairway was passed, and from the depths
below, now filled up, arose plaintive voices, while
mournful shadows glided through the darkness.
Madeline and the angel entered the refectory.
The Lazarist fathers sat at the table, and silently
ate an invisible bread. A religious was standing
up, reading mysterious words from a book without
characters, though distinct sounds fell from  his
transparent lips. When the voice ceased to be
heard, the Lazarists disappeared in the darkness.
In an underground room communicating with the
refectory, were arranged with care thie prisoners of
the community. A lay-brother was asleep upon the
bags of wheat. The angel touched him with the
tip of his wing, and he woke lamenting. The sacks
opened and were empty.
In the street now called" "La.Ferrnee St.-JLazare,"
there was a long procession of lepers, who had returned to visit the place where their little cabins
once stood. Madeline and the angel paused at the
entrance to the chapel. Celestial spirits lay prostrate and adoring within the sanctuary; the nave
was filled with young Levites; the shade of Bossuet
occupied the pulpit. His eloquent voice was full of
the solemn majesty of the tomb, that earthly passage through which eternity is entered. The sounds




192      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
which escaped the lips of the holy shade did not
reach the ear of the young girl, and the angel, seeing she was troubled, hurriedly passed on.  Entering the corridor on the ground-floor, now occupied by the.rilles des cours as worlkshops, they
heard suppressed groans.  In a narrow passage,
there was a dungeon, where, writhing in suffering
and remorse, a young man was confined. The angel
shed some rays of light upon the prisoner, and, listening to his faint ravings, said to 1Madeline:
"After this manner in former times were chastisements inflicted upon those who had broken divine
and humait laws, in order that criminals might thus
be forced to expiate their guilt. In these days,
the guilty are left alone to remorse of consciencethere is freedom of repentance, all tortures are suppressed. May the guilty not await only the punishments of divine justice! "
They enter the first court-yard, and a multitude
of phantoms dressed in white disappear beneath the
pavement. The approach of day begins to throw an
uncertain light upon the eastern horizon. The angel
points out to the young girl a stone upon which a
mysterious figure is engraved, and says to her:
"Your fate is connected with this stone. Tonight when all is darkness, quit your cell, come
hither and raise this stone; you will find under it a
little silver cross, which shall be a safeguard for
you. This is a place of rest, but do not fear to walk
over the bones of the dead. If you wish to leave
the paths of sin, an act of courage is needed, and if




THE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.     193
you dare not come through the darkness amid these
wandering shades, your life will end as soon as this
stone is touched. You shall be guilty and miserable, and you will die in this prison."
At these words, the girl fell upon her knees, and
the celestial voice spoke once more:
"Madeline, remember the  angel of St.-La-,zare!"
She raised her eyes, and saw that the heavenly
messenger no longer touched the ground with his
feet. The veil which had concealed his face was
withdrawn, and the girl was dazzled with his immortal beauty. The tints of morning were already
visible, and the angel enveloped himself in the
gathered rays, and disappeared.
Madeline remounted the stairs, and entered the
cell of St.-Vincent de Paul. She was seized with a
violent fever, and was not able the next day to leave
her bed. An attendant carried her to the infirmary,
and the cell of St.-Vincent de Paul was again left
empty. The girl did not forget her angelic visitor,
and she carefully kept the secret of the vision. She
could never look upon the mysterious stone without
a shudder, nor could she ever summon sufficient
courage to come by night and raise it. She left the
prison, renewed her vicious courses, and was several
times returned to St.-Lazare. The stone still remained undisturbed.
In the course of years, Madeline returned to St.Lazare for the last time, and her first thought was
of the mysterious stone, but when her eyes rested
9




194:     THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
upon it she was struck mute with terror.  The
court-yard was being repaved, and the stone was
turned over! The words of the angel flashed
through her mind. The moment the laborers had
quit work, she came and scraped away the earth a
few inches below the surface. She found a skull,
and a little cross, with a rusty chain; she rubbed
the cross upon her woollen prison-dress until it shone,
and revealed the lustre of silver.
_Madeline threw herself upon her knees, and invoked the angel of St.-Lazare. H4e came not again,
but the guilty creature felt that the hand hitherto
so merciful was now weighing in vengeance upon
her. She doubted not that her last hour was come.
The sins of her whole life arose before her, a cold
sweat stood upon her forehead, and she was unable
to rise. A sister, crossing the court-yard in order
to go into the community-rooms, perceived her.
The lineaments of her face were distorted, she was
dying!  Assistance came quickly, and she was
transported to the infirmary. She related this history to the infirmarian, who repeated it to me with
her own lips.
When the great clock struck the hour of midnight, the prisoner raised herself up in her bed of
pain and cried:
"See, the angel of St.-Lazare is returning!"
At this moment, a religious was passing through
the room, to whom she said:
"Sister, run to the chapel of St.-Vincent de Paul,
and recite a prayer for me, and the angel will carry




THIE ANTIQUITIES OF ST.-LAZARE.    195
it up with those that the seraphim present to God,
from their golden censers."
The sister believed the patient delirious, but
went to say the prayer, andl returned with the priest,
who reconciled the dying woman with her God.
When the first rays of dawn appeared, her eyes, inundated with tears, closed forever. She died at the
hour that the angel had left her, on his first visit.
The prayer of the sister, united to that of St.Vincent de Paul, had been the means of saving
Mladeline, and the angel of St.-Lazare carried her
soul to heaven.
The same heavenly visitant returns nightly to
the prison. For you, poor prisoners who dwell in
it, may he warn you of the moment for repentance!
May the angel of St.-Lazare bear you to God enfolded in his wings!




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT.
THE same prisoner wh1o.had shown me the dungeon of the " Ainesses " said to me:
"Madame, since you so love to see old things,
you must visit the otbliettes."
"You have the oublieltes in St.-Lazare? "
"Yes, madame."
" Where are they placed?"
"I do not know precisely, but I will inquire."
Upon which, another prisoner was called, whom
we proceeded to question.
"Do you know where the oubliettes can be
found? "
" Yes, madame."
" Well, where are they?"
" They extend under the whole house; and it is
believed that subterranean passages or vaults reach
as far even as St.-Denis."
" Who says that? "
"Everybody says so."
"Oh! that is equivalent to saying nobody believes it. But do you know where the entrance to
these vaults may be found?"
" I do not know; wait a moment till I return."
In five minutes she was back, and bade us follow




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 197
her. Our course led to the bathing-rooms of the
second section. In front of an oven, which served
to heat the water in a large copper boiler, was to be
seen a wooden trap-door, more than a yard square,
which, being raised, exposed to view nothing but a
deep, dark hole.
Lantern in hand, and relieved of my cloak and
bonnet, I prepared to enter the vault. Tlle mistress
of the baths said to me:
":MIadame, do you intend to go down into that
place?"
" Yes. -I wish to see for myself what these dunlgeons are like."
Near by stood a prisoner, who in a frightened
manner caught hold of my skirt, saying:
"Don't do that, madame."
"Why? "
"Who knows but there may be a deep precipice
underneath? "
I smiled at her fears, and replied:
" Very well, we shall see."
A religious, more courageous than myself, took
the light, and was about to precede me, when the
mistress of the baths suggested:
"Madame, your shoes are very light; it is damp
down there, you will get your feet wet; will you
permit me to bring you a pair of sabots (wooden
shoes worn by the peasants of France)?"
"Yes;" and a pair belonging to one of the inmates was immediately produced; but not being
accustomed to wear this kind of shoe, and finding




198      TIE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
the steps very narrow, I relieved myself of them.
WVe descended into the first vault. Venomous reptiles covered the walls; glutinous, shiny stalactites
hung fiom the ceiling, and my f et sank into a slimy
mud. In making the tour of the vault, we discovered
an opening, and resolutely entered it, finding another
vault built in the form of a cross, through which the
water-pipes passed. We sounded the walls, which
had not an ancient appearance, and could not find
the slightest trace of a subterranean passage. These
walls seem to have been constructed simply as a foundation to the infirmary.  We remounted the difficult
slaircase; not, however, without brushing against a
few lizards. When we found ourselves once more in
the cheerful light, we breathed the pure air with new
pleasure. We were not a little disconcerted, however, to find our garments covered with frightened
crickets and other insects. I said to the mistress
of the baths:
"Those vaults below are not the oubliettes."
She replied:
" I know very well they are not; but the sick,
when they are unmanageable, are made to believe
that they are, in order to terrify them into quiet;
the most unreasonable among them  suddenly becomes docile when threatened to be let down into
the oubliettes."
Notwithstanding, I could not banish from my
mind the belief that these dungeons really existed,
and I asked myself how it was possible otherwise
to account for an idea so generally entertained.




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 199
One day a circumstance occurred which excited my
curiosity, and fiom which I hoped light would break
upon the subject. I was standing before my window, which was open, and saw two men in blouses
cross the " court of liberty."  The unoccupied part
of the first court is so calledhbecause the prisoners
never pass through this court except on their arrival, and cannot traverse it again until they are free.
One of these men led a large horse by the bridle,
and the other carried a long coil of rope. One of
the keepers cainme to open a great door in the centre
of the wall, through which the men passed into the
other half of the court-yard. The movements of
the men perplexed me. One raised a trap-door by
nmeans of a rope and pulley.  The trap-door was
situated near the house, and before the casse-cozu
passage. This apparatus, with the aid of the horse,
was sufficient to raise fiom the vaults some large
casks of wine; and, by the length of the rope employed, I was able to judge of the depth of the
vaults.
I began to think that, by talking advantage of
this occasion, I might find some clew to the whereabouts of the mysterious cells; and, profiting by the
earliest moment after the men had finished their
work, I descended into the cellars, exploring my
way, until I arrived at the place from which the
casks had been drawn out. But, alas for my hopes!
I had discovered no subterranean passage.
These cellars are immense, and extend under the
entire house.- In some places, doors securely fast



200      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
ened open into them. I have visited these cellars
as often as possible, and examined the ground attentively. I found, in one of the vaults on the north
side, a range of dressed stone, through the crevices
of which I was able to see sufficient to establish the
fact that a vacant space lay beyond. At certain
places I have been stopped in my course by coming
upon doors now solidly masoned up. I could also
hear a low murmuring as of running water, but which
may have been caused by the water in the pipes.
Be that as it may, one thing is certain-I have
not yet discovered the outbliettes. Historians have
asserted that no such cells exist at St.-Lazare, but
this does not satisfy me. To make sure, I must see
the soil probed, and the walls sounded. I still feel
a painful impression from these sombre explorations, and often have chills since the day I first descended into the supposed oubliettes, but the love I
bear to truth makes me resigned.
October 13th.
As I was returning from a walk in the garden, I
saw a small covered wagon stop before the amphitheatre. A keeper and an auxiliary (a prisoner employed in the service of the house) carried out to
it some object enveloped in a sheet of gray linen,
which the two placed in the vehicle. I scanned
their burden closely: it was a corpse, for the limbs
were perfectly defined under the folds of the winding-sheet. The sight filled me with emotion. The
gloomy vehicle was then closed, and I followed it




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 201
with my eyes until the great gate upon the outer
road closed upon it and concealed it from view.
lMy prayers alone accompanied the remains of one
more unfortunate creature to Clamart.
October 14th.
The autumn has come, dear Marie; the yellow
leaves fall from the trees, and clouds cover the sky.
The air breathes sadness; the swallows have gone,
and the court they inhabited is deserted. Around
me reigns the solitude of a prison. I hear nothing
but the -murmur of the voices of the inmates, and I
am engulfed in gloomy reveries. Why does not the
spring-time last always? Why must the bright sun
be hidden from us, and the gay green fields turn
brown and sear?  Why does life pass so quickly
from the flowers, and youth from woman, to return
no more?
October 15th.
I am suffering, 5Marie, and have not left my bed
to-day. I have asked for paper and pen, that I may
divert my mind by writing to you.  This chamber of mine has been occupied perhaps by a saint,
or perhaps by a lunatic, or a leper, or a poet, or a
clown, and it still bears the impress of the middle
ages, in spite of its modern decorations. It is a
small, irregular room, with a high ceiling, and a
plain floor.  It has an antique chimney-piece of
black marble, and there is but one window, which




202      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
is very high.  It is probable that my green window-shutters replace the iron bars with which it
was furnished at a not very remote period; for,
when I came here, this room was expressly prepared
for my use. The wall has been covered by a lightgray paper studded with bouquets of roses; it is
bordered with black, garlanded with the same species of flowers. I have over my mantel a painting
of the Blessed Virgin, of the Flemish school, and
very near my bed a magnificent engraving after
Poussin. The furniture is very simple, but looks
fresh and cheerful. When my curtains are drawn,
and the court-yard is shut out from sight, I might
forget that I was in a prison.
Marie, my dear friend, the shadow of a great
name overhangs St.-Lazare.  St.-Vincent de Paul
lived in this house, sanctifying it by his charity, and
here he finally died. I have told you that the cell
where he yielded his last breath has been converted
into a chapel by the religious who now have charge
of the house. I kneel there with the greatest respect; I have prayed to that great benefactor of the
human race to extend, even now that he is dead,
a salutary influence over those who are incarcerated
within these walls.
The altar now stands upon the spot formerly occupied by the bed of the holy priest; and a worn
step is shown near the window, on which he used to
rest his feet during the hours he devoted to labor.
In a portrait hanging in the sanctuary, and said to
be a striking resemblance, he seems to live again




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 203
with us.  If you but knew, Marie, how soothing
to the fervent soul, wrapped in silent prayer, this
oratory is! Imagine the religious all assembled
there! When the organ vibrates under the touch of
a sister, when the blessed candles are lighted, and
the smoke of incense arises before the altar, then
all is poetry and perfume.  My earnest hope is,
that you, too, may one day come and kneel in
this venerated chapel; in the mean time I shall pray
there for you often.
A throng of recollections presents itself to the
mind on entering St.-Lazare.  IMore than twelve
hundred persons were confined here during the
Revolution, among them  priests, noblemen, and
poets. It was from St.-Lazare that Boucher and
Andre Ch6nier went forth to the scaffold.
Between the first and second courts there is a
passage that the superioress called my attention to.
It is known as the casse-cou, or break-neck passage,
and is paved with large stones, with the exception
of a small space covered with boards which resound under the step of the visitor.  With this spot
gloomy and terrible traditions are associated. The
first time I visited it, a religious said to me:
"Here, during the Reign of Terror, prisoners
were assassinated."
Later, a very old woman, one of the inmates of
the prison, said to me:'Madame, these large stones have been stained
with blood; on this spot prisoners were massacred
during the Revolution."




204         THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
In fact, such is the general opinion. It is said,
also, that these  boards formed  a trap-door, and
when the unhappy victims of popular fury desired
to go into the court-yard to take the air, they were
forced to cross this passage.  The trap giving way
beneath their feet, they were precipitated into the
abyss below before an appeal for help could be made.
What despair, what agony and tears, have  these
walls beheld!  I shudder at the thought.  It often
seems to me that I hear groans issuing from the
bowels of the earth. Sometimes the lyre of Andre
Chenier seems to resound in my ear.  I listen, and I
hear the plaintive words of the young and gentle captive 
" ST.-LAzAr.
" L'6pis naissant mucrit, de la faux respect6,
Sans crainte du pressoir, le pampre tout 1'6t6
Boit les doux pr6sents de l'aurore;
Et moi, commne lui belle, et jeune conrmme lui,
Quoique l'heure presente ait de trouble et d'ennui,
Je ne veux pas mourir encore.
"O Mort, tu peux attendre! eloigne, Cloigne-toi!
Va consoler les cceurs que la crainte, l'effroi,
Le pale d6sespoir d6vore.
Pour moi Pal~s encore a des asiles verts,
Les Amours des baisers, les Muses des concerts,
Je ne veux pas mourir encore."
Then, I seem  to hear his indignant rebuke of
tyrants:
"' ST.-LAZARE.
"'Mourir sans vider mon carquois!
Sans percer, sans fouler, sans petrir danms leur fange,




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 205
Ces bourreaux barbouilleurs de lois
Ces tyrants effront6s de la France asservie,
Egorg6e!... O mon cher tr6sor,
O ma plume! Fiel, bile, horreur, dieux de ma vie!
Par vous seuls je respire encor.
Quoi! nul ne restera pour attendrir l'histoire
Sur tant de justes massacres;"
But, above all, I feel touched by these last prophetic words from his pen:
"ST.-LIZARE, l'7th Thlermidor, 1794.
"Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier zdphire,
Anime la fin d'un beau jour,
Au pied de 1'chbafaud, j'essaie encor ma lyre
Peut-ctre est-ce bierit6t mon tour;
Peut-etre avant que l'heure, en cerc!e promen6e,
Ait pos6 sur l'6mail brillant,
Dans les soixante pas oii sa route est bornee,
Son pied sonore et vigilant,
Le sommeil du tombeau pressera ma paupiere
Avant que de ses deux moiti6s,
Ce vers, que je commence ait atteint Ia derniere,
Peut 6tre en ces murs effray6s,
Le messager de mort, noir recruteur des ombres,
Escort6 d'inf'mes soldats,
Remplira de mon nom ces longs corridors sombres.'"
"ANDR' CHIINIER."
[Interrupted to go to the scaffold.]
Yes, the name of the unfortunate poet yet reverberates through'"the long, gloomy  corridors."




200      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
lMany cries of terror or of suffering have since been
heard there, but the memory still haunts the spot
of him who died so young, ere yet his genius had
reached its full development. If I could believe
that the unrecorded thoughts which occupied his
brain were still floating in their germ within the
walls of his former prison, I would wish to assimilate them to myself, that I might give them  utterance.
~What must a man think of this passing world,
when he approaches the threshold of another, in the
full possession of all the faculties of his soul, and
the forces of his body, for the poet met death face
to face, before he had attained to the natural limit
of life? Tell me, O spirit of Che6nier, what I so long
to know. Ordinarily, we die little by little, by the
gradual advance of old age or sickness, and, when
the last summons comes to separate soul and body,
it finds life already a half-extinguished flame.
The prisoners cross the passage of the " cassecou " several times a day; laughter is heard, where
so many tears have been shed! Believe me, MIarie,
gayety in a prison is sadder than tears.
The first time that I heard the laughter of the
prisoners, my heart stood still. That one may forget misfortune I can conceive-but shame, never!
That one may become indifferent to poverty, is not
surprising; but to crime, how is it possible?  Still,
this is what we see here: and tllere are prisoners
who are even merry, oblivious of the disgrace that
follows in the footsteps of vice.




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. 207
October 16tf,
The sun has disappeared, hazy clouds cover
the horizon, and sombre thoughts oppress my soul.
Woman is so impressionable! she is joyous when
the sky is blue, and the birds sing; she is sad and
depressed when Nature lowers her aspect. She is
keenly sensible to the influences which surround her,
in the atmosphere, the changing seasons, the various
places she inhabits, the men and things with which
she is thrown into contact. Woman is like a lute,
that the least contact causes to vibrate, or an iEolian harp, that responds to the lightest breeze. She
adapts herself with astonishing facility to her external surroundings; she weeps with those who weep,
and rejoices with those who rejoice. You must not
believe that this versatility is the result of affectation
on her part; no, she follows the simple impulse of
her nature.
Take a joyous young creature from the midst of
a fte, and place her face to face with wretchedness;
before her smile will have disappeared, a tear will
tremble on her eyelid. Woman alone can pass from
one impression to another of the most opposite character. Nature has formed her thus in order to
fit her for her own peculiar destiny. Her place is in
the family, and, while she shares with her husband his
cares and vexations, she must smile with her children, and fmingle in their sports. Woman has an
admirable organization, to which justice is not always rendered, for her flexibility is generally called
inconstancy.




208      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Is woman, in truth, light or inconstant?  No,
she-is capable of thle greatest depth and concentration of feeling; her affections and her sorrows, time
cannot change. All that is light and trifling in her
character she owes to the education she receives, to
the ideas inculcated in her mind from her earliest
infancy. As the consequence of her childish treatment, frivolity must become her second nature.
October 17th.
Marie, how many women fail in their duty! It
is because they do not know themselves; they forget their own value, or they never knew it. The
sentiment of personal dignity is not sufficiently developed in woman: and yet, this sentiment is, when
united with religion, the only solid basis for a
moral education that is to develop her real dignity.
It is impossible for a woman who understands and
remembers her true destiny to degrade herself.
Such a one may be led away for a moment, through
weakness, but to sink to the lowest depth would be
difficult for her.
I asked a prisoner, who had been a great criminal, by what steps she had fallen into vice. She
was a very intelligent person, and appeared to have
received some education. Her reply was:
"Madame, few women would dare to throw themselves away if they only knew the cost of the step.
After my first fall, my better nature revolted, and I
experienced such shame and despair, that I could




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT.  209
have taken my life. A friend, one of my- own sex,
but an evil counsellor, who came to see me, said:
"'You are suffering; you must seek distraction,
and try to forget your troubles,' and she presented
me some champagne. I drank until I benumbed my
senses. I did the same at every new fall, but I did
not arrive at the last degree of debasement until I
had stifled every noble instinct, and until, through
drunkenness, I had forgotten my dignity as a woman.'
This unfortunate creature was only twenty years
of age. She died a few days after.
October 18tlh.
The wind blows fiercely around the prison today, and the sound penetrates to the secret recesses of the soul, and seems to comprise the concentratedl sighs and groans of all who suffer here.
Can we not distinguish in all this sad concert the
griefs of woman? She endures sickness, poverty,
oppression, disgrace, and abandonment, for faults
in which she is but an accomplice. Young girls,
wives, mothers, all have suffered, all will continue
to suffer. Let us pity our sex, Marie; let us pray
for them, and pour a little balm into their wounds,
when opportunity presents.
October 19th.
I have come to the conclusion, dear friend, that
the fate of woman depends in a great measure upon




210      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
man. Those who are happy, owe their good fortunes to their husbands, or to their fathers, or to
some other male member of their family.  How
thankful they should be to God, and how devoted
to their natural protectors! The affection of a
woman's heart is a source of joy to a man. She
knows so well how to alleviate suffering, to dissipate sadness, and to lighten the weight of care. She
knows how to change cheerfulness into joy, and render happiness more than complete. If men knew
how sweet a pleasure it would bring to their own
hearts to be good, to be just, and to be generous;
if they knew how advantageous it would be to them
to render effective protection to the women by whom
they are surrounded, or to whom they are united by
the ties of blood, would they speak only of their own
rights, and of our cdties? No; their rights may be
written in the law, but our duties are written only
in our hearts. If they would aim but to win our
affections, there would be nothing wanting to the
happiness of either side.
October 20#M.
I have just returned from a ramble through several of the prison corridors. At this hour, the inmates are engaged in the workshops, and all the
cells are empty. I have inspected several of the
latter  The little beds were all covered alike, with
a brown woollen coverlet, finished off in the neatest
manner. Order and cleanliness reigned throughout.
On approaching one of the cells, I heard a voice sing



DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT. -211
ing, in a sweet and plaintive tone, like that of a mother hushing her child to sleep. It was that of a prisoner, one who had evidently not undergone trial and
sentence, for she was not yet clothed in the prison
uniform. She was young and beautiful, and her
dress indicated a person of the better class. She
was seated on a stool before her window, with her
eyes fixed upon the court-yard, but her thoughts,
without doubt, were elsewhere, for she sang vague
words to a monotonous air, which she timed with a
slight movement of the head. I caught a side view
of her face; it was pale, and her chestnut-colored
hair descended in large masses upon her neck. For
an instant I entertained the thought of going into
the cell to speak with her, but, as my visit might not
have produced a good effect, and she appeared so
peiaceful and resigned in her solitude, I concludecl
to leave her to her own thoughts.
It is now mid-day; the inmates of the department of correction are taking their recreation. At
the first stroke of the " angelus " they simultaneously drop down upon their knees, in the midst of the
court, while the sister on guard recites the prayers
in a loud voice. It was touching to hear these young
girls make the responses. For them the prison of
St.-Lazare proves a boon rather than an evil. Happy
will they be if, on leaving the prison, they carry
with them the habits of order, of labor, and of devotion, that they have acquired while here!




212      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
Ociober 21st.
Dear M1arie, I have seen an unfortunate creature
die, and so young! She was old in wickedness, but
young in years. TIer features were regular; she
might once have been handsome, but there were no
longer any traces of beauty left. Her pale face rested languidly on her pillow; her emaciated hand was
scarcely perceptible, in its whiteness, upon the counterpane. Those present were on their knees, holding lighted candles in their hands, for the priest
was present with the holy viaticum. All were in
tears, save the dying girl.
"I am glad to die," said she, "for this life has
not been to me a happy one. The days of my youth
have been short and full of evil, What remorse I
feel for my guilt! God will, I hope, have mercy
on me. Pray for me, for I have but a moment left
for repentance."
She raised herself up to receive communion, and,
overcome by the exertion, fell back exhausted. An
hour after, she was no more.
The next day I assisted at the mass celebrated for her repose.  The prisoners carried her remains into the chapel, and, after the prayers for the
dead were finished, a solitary hearse served to carry
her remains to their last resting-place. Not a relative, not one friend to shed a tear on the lonely coffin, followed her to the grave! She had abandoned
her family, and her family disowned her. She had
bartered her youth for a few days of foolish pleasure, and those who took her beauty fiom her gave




DUNGEONS OF PERPETUAL IMPRISONMENT.  213
her nothing in exchange but disgrace.  She has
passed away without leaving a trace; once dead,
she is utterly forgotten. Young women, watch over
yourselves, prepare yourselves for a useful career,
and live nobly, if you would die beloved and regretted.
October 22d.
There is not a being in the world who has received greater censure, and at the same time been
more highly extolled than woman. I affirm that the
most contradictory things may be said of her that
it is possible to suggest, and reason may not be
able to dispute it. The life of man runs on in an
undeviating round, by which his existence and character are modelled into unity; but not so the life of
woman. Her days are an alternation of the good
and the evil things of life; sometimes she will be
full of vigor, of health, and of sound impulses, charming in her disposition, flashing with wit and gayety,
desirous and capable of accomplishing the most difficult things. At another time she will be found
feeble, sick, capricious, melancholy, witless, egotistic,
and incapable of the slightest effort of mind or
body. There are days when the most superior
woman has not one lucid idea in her mind-days
when one who is ordinarily most devoted to others
will forget all her obligations, and become entirely
devoted to her own selfish pursuits.
But can this be said to be the true character of
woman? No, no more than it can be said that, be



214      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
cause of one stormy day, storms are the normal condition of Nature. Those who have praised her too
much have only considered her good qualities in her
happy moments. Those who have blamed her without measure have seen nothing but her faults in her
days of gloom. To be just toward her, she must be
seen in all her aspects, and be judged by all her
works.




THE CHAPEL OF THE PRISON.
I HAVE already spoken, my dear friend, of St.
Vincent de Paul's chapel, but I have said nothing
as yet of that of the institution, although I visit
it nearly every day.  I choose, for this purpose,
an hour when it is not frequented by others, that
I may pursue my meditations undisturbed. IHow
I love its mysterious silence at such a time, when
the wooden benches are empty, and only the solitary lamp burning before the hidden Presence in
the tabernacle!  Nothing distracts me here, except an occasional voice from the court-yard where
the prisoners are in recreation. The hours spent here
are delightful in my memory.
When approached by the interior corridors, one
enters through a large vestibule which served the
same purpose to the old chapel, now demolished, but
upon which spot the present one was built in 1828.
Over the entrance, in black letters on the white wall,
are these words firom Scripture: "This is the house
of God and the gate of heaven." On the right is
the sacristy, over the door of which is the impressive inscription-" Silence, for God is near!" On
entering the chapel, that which strikes the eye first
is a vast tribune, supported by plain pillars. The




216      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
inclosure, the same as the tribune, is entirely filled
with wooden benches, painted the same color, and
destined for the use of the inmates. In front of
these, and separated from them by an iron railing,
are six benches, varnished, and kept brightly polished, for the use of the religious.
The altar is placed very high. Ten stone steps
lead to the communion-rail, and, to reach the platform of the altar, five more steps, arranged in a
semicircular form, must be ascended. The high altar
is of oak, and in plain style. Above it is a statue of
St. Vincent de Paul. Over this, again, is a good copy
from Prudhon's painting of Miary lagdclalen at the
foot of the cross. The face is in shadow, and only
one shoulder is presented to the light. This portion
of the figure, although not irreproachable as a work
of art, has, nevertheless, a life-like appearance, and
one seems to see the flesh shudder under the weight
of Magdalen's grief, as she ought to have shuddered
in the midst of the world's voluptuous fetes.
Representations of this great penitent always
affect me profoundly.  This prisoner of penance,
breathing out her life in tears and regrets, and ending her days in the depths of a frightful desert, presents fallen woman with the example she should
follow, if she wishes to expiate the past. Many of
the poor creatures who kneel before this picture
must experience anguish and remorse like hers.
How many tears have not been shed in this chapel
-how many sobs heard within its walls!
Six large stained-glass windows light the chapel,




THE CHAPEL OF THE PRISON.          21'
surmounted by a dome. The roof is supported by
eight columns of the Tuscan order of architecture.
Beside the sanctuary is a dimly-lighted oratory,
dedicated to the Blessed Virgin under the title of
Our Lady of Reconciliation, a favorite shrine of resort for the prisoners.  In addition to the lamp
which, by the care of one of the religious, is kept
constantly burning before this altar, the prisoners
daily bring candles. The statue of the Mother of
God is so covered with rich satins and laces that
only the head remains visible. This statue was
found by one of the sisters in a pile of rubbish,
which was first given an honorable place in the
house, and afterward placed in this oratory, which
was erected expressly for it.
The devotion practised by these unhappy and
guilty women toward the pure and immaculate
Mother is most salutary and consoling to them.
At the feet of IMary, they find not only relief from
present woes, but hope for the future. Sometimes
they come here to pray with a heart loaded with
despair, and rise from their knees full of-resignation
and courage, and resolving to bury in a cloister the
sins and miseries of the past. Why do not the pure
and honorable of our sex imitate holy M]ary's clemency, and extend the hand of compassion to elevate
the fallen?
Tile chapel can seat nearly six hundred, and, in
order that all may be present at the offices of the
church on days of obligation, the pre'venrues are assigned to the tribune. The blehavior of the prison10




218      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
ers at mass, to whatever section they may belong, is
admirable. I will do them the justice to say that in
this they impressed me most favorably. It is proper
to remark, however, that the least infraction of the
rules of order and decency at such a time is severely
punished. Mlany among them stand in awe of the
chapel: they are afraid of being converted there.
There are others who do not offer any interior resistance to the sweet spirit of prayer, nor close their
ears to the paternal exhortations that are addressed
to them. These return to God and to a worthy
and honorable career, blessing St.-Lazare and its
chapel for the remainder of their lives for having
been the means of rescuing  them from the paths
of vice.
All religious ceremonies in the chapel are performed with splendor and solemnity. The chapel is
always decorated with fresh flowers, the linens are
spotless in purity, and all the ornaments are kept in
the neatest order. The chaplains of St.-Lazare are
men who have grown gray in the service of the
sanctuary. In laboring for the spiritual interests
of the prisoners, they employ a fatherly tenderness,
united with an apostolic zeal. They are held in
the highest respect and veneration, and the good
they accomplish is very great. However, they employ no influence over the prisoners except that of
prayer and exhortation, for the sacraments are not
made obligatory on the inmates of St.-Lazare.
Sometimes preachers of great distinction come
hither to assist the chaplains in their work of draw



THE CHAPEL OF THE PRISON.         219
ing souls to God, and on leaving uniformly testify
to the edification they have received from the conduct of the prisoners, and to the emotion excited in
them by the evident signs they see of repentance.
The time has long since passed when an archbishop,
of holy memory, dared not visit St.-Lazare for fear
of receiving insults.
PROTESTANT WORSHIP.
All religious creeds are respected at St.-Lazzare.
Near the infirmary of the first section is a room
exclusively for the exercise of Protestant worship.
The room is small; somewhat wider than it is long.
Two benches occupy one side of it, and opposite
them is a platform and desk for the minister. Above
this hangs a simple wooden cross. The window
faces the entrance, and the room is heated by a porcelain stove. There are four tablets on the walls, on
one of which is inscribed the Lord's Prayer, on another the Apostolic symbols and on the remaining
two the Ten Commandments.
Lady deaconesses come every week, sometines
every day, to visit the Protestant inmates.
JEWISH WVORSIIIP.
Imnmediately opposite the Protestant chapel is
that for the Israelites. I expected to find here some
Hebrew inscription, or at least some verses from the
Old Testament, but there was nothing to be seen
except a table, a few chairs, and some books on a
shelf.




220      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
October 23Jd
I am fatigued; I have overtaskled my strength
by writing to-day. The atmosphere is heavy, damp,
and unwholesome. I feel the absence of the sun.
Deatr Marie, how I sigh for the blue skies and the
lovely mountains of our own Provence! Can it be
possible that I may never revisit it?
October 24th.
A mother's influence with a daughter is immense;
not only has she imparted to her the blood that flows
in her veins, and nourished her with sustenance from
her own breast, but she communicates to her her
own good or bad qualities, and sometitnes, as we
see, shares with her her own intellectual gifts.
There was a mother who had seven beautiful
daughters, who were intelligent, but somewhat fond
of pleasure.  IHowever, having been educated by
a mother not only exemplary in her character, but
industrious in her habits, they were good and industrious like her. The mother died; the daughters,
no longer sustained by her salutary influence, began
to neglect their domestic occupations. Tilhe home
made so sweet by the mother's presence, soon became distasteful to them, till finally they abandoned
it altogether, and entered upon the stage. One of
them is at this time an inmate of St.-Lazare, who
said to me only the other day:'If my mother were still living, I should not
have been here in prison."




TIIE CHAPEL OF THE PRISON.        221
Now, since this brings me to mention the stage,
I may ask why it is a word synonymous with moral
debasement?  WVho and what is an artiste or actress, Marie?  She is a person who is ordinarily
endowed with courage, energy, and intelligence.
Tier r6ie is to interpret genius, and to give a living
form to its creations. An actress is one entitled to
consideration, because she works for a living. Why,
then, is she not more respected?  Why is she not
received in society? It is simply because she does
not appreciate her own value, and places herself in
a false position; she is not satisfied to remain a
worthy person, maintaining herself honorably by
her profession, but she aims to lead a life of luxury,
and so she adds, to the toilsome work of close study
and frequent rehearsals, the wear and tear of a life
of pleasure.
Let me counsel actresses of talent, to leave grand
toilets and costly jewels to lorettes and courtezans.
Make no effort to shine otherwise than by your own
genius, and then you will not be tempted to part
with your highest honor. Lead a life of regularity.
Your position is a difficult one to fill, and you require a protector; it is one of constant toil, and
you should seek repose in the surroundings of a
home; therefore seek a suitable companion for life.
Whom shall you marry? The scion of a family
who will never forgive him  for his m esalliance?
One who will force you into a circle unwilling to
receive you?  No. Such a marriage would be as
ill-advised and ill-assorted for you as for him. Your




222      THiE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
profession demands that you seek the presence of
decided talent in your husband, with which, unhappily, the sons of distinguished families are rarely
endowed. Marry an artist like yourself; he will
not only protect you, but will cause others to regard your rights and respect your person. You
have your profession by which you can distinguish
yourself, and make a fortune, and, what is much
more essential, you will have a home in which to be
beloved. This prospect should satisfy the aspirations of the most exacting.
MIarie, the French people will never consent to
abandon the theatre as a place of amusement) and,
if actors would lead more regular lives, their talents
would be brought to a much higher degree of perfection, and, in place of seeing our favorite actresess
in the midst of their stormy career fade and fall
before their time, we should have those who are aiding to develop the highller and better sentiments of
the people; then the chefs d'ccuvres of art would
displace the stage-tricks and unmeaning pageant of
to-day. Once make our artists happy in their conjugal relations, and we may expect to behold the
stage correspondingly elevated. Do you believe
such a state of things to be impossible? We have
actresses already who are married, and lead honorable and exemplary lives, and enjoy that preellhinence in their profession which is due to their entire devotion to it. All honor to such! I trust
that their noble example will be imitated by others.
Whenever such as these appear upon the stage, may




THE CHAPEL OF THE PRISON.        223
the public redouble its applause, as a compliment tb
their industry and their honorable conduct!
October 251h.
It rains, Marie, and it reminds one of that heavy,
cold, eternal rain, of which Dante speaks in his " Inferno." The continued, monotonous sound, made by
the drops falling upon the pavement of the courtyard, strangely impresses my mind, and prevents
me from pursuing any regular train of thought. I
have dropped my pen, and fallen into one of my
usual dreamy reveries.
October 26th.
In the second section, appropriated entirely to
females of disreputable character, there is a young
girl who bartered her virtue for the sake of bread
for her mother. Her history is truly a sad one.
Her mother was ill, and, although totally unable to
procure the remedies she needed, shrunk from the
idea of going to the hospital.  The pittance her
daughter earned by working all day and a part of
thenight, by the dim light of a smoky lamp, was
exhausted; and their poor garret was without clothing or fire, nor was there even a spoonful of broth
for the sick mother.
Wearied and desperate, the girl went out to seek
aid. She returned, sadder, paler, and more desperate than before, but she brought a piece of gold!
The mother always remained in ignorance of the




224      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
means her child employed, to meet the expenses of
their humble home, or in what manner their every
want was now supplied; and to-day the girl is an
inmate of St.-Lazare. With suppressed sobs, she
said to me only yesterday:
"0  madame, how wretched I am! If my mother
knew the whole truth, she would die with shame.
And now see what I suffer for my devotion to
her!"
I replied that duty to parents did not require
us to commit a crime, nor transgress in the least the
limits of virtue.
A woman's most precious treasure is not life, but
honor. Death, with honor unstained, is preferable
to a life of shame. But, my dear friend, if there are
daughters who sell their virtue for the sake of their
parents, there are also mothers who sell their children for a selfish gain to themselves. A crime more
horrible than this it is impossible for a woman to
commit. For its punishment all the resources of
human legislation are inadequate, and only divine
justice can measure out a penalty at all proportioned
to its deserts.
October 2t7h.
A young mother has just arrived. The keeper
held her infant while she descended from the van,
and carried it with the greatest care. As she entered the prison-door, the mother affectionately
clasped her child in her arms, and with moistened
eyes thanked the kind keeper.




THE NURSERY HALL.
ONE of the most touching sights to be seen in
the prison are the " ctlles des Xourrices," for the
reception of prisoners with infants.  Yes, Miarie,
strange as it may seem, there are many such mothers sent here. I often see the interesting little
creatures, seeking the sunshine that makes its waythrough the bars which protect the windows, and
shut out from air and liberty to expiate the mothers'
fault. With delicate forethought, the authorities
have appropriated to the nursing-mothers two apartments looking toward the south, into which the sun
shines a good part of the day, so that the children
may bask in its healthful beams.
These apartments contain from twenty to twentyfive beds each, those of the children being placed at
the foot of the mothers'. There are from fifty to
sixty children, for some of the mothers have several
each. These little ones are allowed to remain at
St.-Lazare until they are three years old, when they
are removed to the depot. They are well cared for;
the establishment spends twelve hundred francs a
year for milk to make their porridge. One day, in
crossing the halls, I saw a sister weighing out the




226      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
beautiful flour of which the mothers made their
food. The mothers have the same fare that is assigned to the inmates of the infirmary.
One of the rooms, called La Salle des Transferies, is appropriated to those who have been
sentenced to the central prison, but who are permitted to remain in St.-Lazare, on account of their
little children. The other contains those who are
imprisoned for only a short term. Marie, I beg
of you to devote your leisure moments to making
clotlies for these little ones. So long as the mothers remain in prison, their linen is supplied by the
house, but, on leaving it, this linen is given up,
and they are often destitute of means to procure
more. I know this to be so, from a circumstance I
witnessed. I met a mother just as she was leaving
the prison, who seemed very happy, and who carried
in her arms a remarkably fine child. But the latter
had hardly any clothing on, and its pretty little feet
were bare, being only wrapped around by a corner
of the mother's apron. Will you not send me something for the poor little things?
Notwithstanding,  Iiarie, that vice and crime
abound here, we meet occasionally with striking examples of virtue and self-devotion. The little history I am about to relate will illustrate this.




THE TWO FRIENDS.
Two young seamstresses were engaged at work
in tile same shop. One was an orphan, and had no
relatives except grandparents, who lived in a distant province. She herself dwelt alone in her garret in the lcarais. Agla6, for that was the orphan's
name, worked all the week for her employer, and
Sunday being the only day she had for herself, sihe
put to rights in the morning her little chamber,
went to mass, and afterward took a long walk il
the open air. She was happy, notwithstanding her
isolation. I1er toilet was modest, her wages were
sufficient for all her simple wants, and she envied no
one. She had never set foot in a ballroom, that
place where so many of the poor work-wo-men of
Paris have been lost. Her natural integrity of
character, and, above all, the religious principles that
her mother had instilled into her heart, preserved
her from exposing herself to such dangers.
Sophia, her companion, belonged to an industrious family, who took a just pride in their good
name. Her mother, though at times abrupt in her
manner, was an honest woman, a good wife, and a
good mother. She divided her time between her




228      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
daily labor and the care of her children, and kept
good order in her household.
One winter, Agla6 fell sick, and Sophia and her
mother attended her with the greatest care, as worthy people of their class are wont to do for one
another. The orphan recovered, and vowed lasting
friendship to Sophia, and unlimited gratitude to
Sophia's good mother.
Sophia was in her eighteenth year. She was
beautiful, and she knew it. The consequence was,
that she began to show a love for dress, and if her
mother had not rigidly prohibited every kind of
vain display, she would have expended her wages
in ornaments for her person. AglaE felt great solicitude for her friend on this account, and often
remarked to her that simplicity in dress was the
most becoming attire for a young girl, and above
all for a humble seamstress like herself.  Sophia
incredulously shook her head.
Now, there was employed in the same shop with
the two friends, a young person of a gay disposition,
and whose conduct was not above suspicion. This
girl had quite captivated Sophia. She was very
fluent on the subject of dress, fashions, etc., and
finally talked so much about balls, that Sophia was
seized with a feverish desire of going to one, even if
it were but for once. Julia removed every difficulty
by assuring her that no one would know ally thing
about it. But, to go to a ball, one must have a suitable outfit, which Sophia did not possess. This was
a great obstacle, which Julia, however, was not long




THE TWO FRIENDS.             229
in disposing of. She took down a box from her em.ployer's shelf, filled with muslins, Valenciennes laces,
and flowers, saying:
"See, what a lovely toilet you can make of
these!"
Sophia's eyes sparkled with delight.
"Very well," she hurriedly answered.  "I will
use theam to-day, and replace them to-morrow."
Accordingly, a toilet was improvised, and they
went to the ball. Two hours of frivolity were spent
here, and Sophia's vanity was satisfied. But, how
bitter was the return! Clearly it was quite impossible for her to show herself in her mother's rooms,
with that tell-tale finery on. So, after great perplexity, she concluded to go to Aglae. The latter
had been quite sad at the thought of her friend's
having left her alone so long, and so, when Sophia
had made her appearance, she joyfully embraced
her. She immediately perceived that Sophia was
troubled, but the latter volunteered no explanation,
and returned to her mother's apartments, after
leaving with Agla6, without comment, the flowers
and the white dress she had worn. The orphan
passed a restless night, for she had a vague suspicion
of the truth, and she wept many tears for her friend.
The next morning, as Agla6 was preparing to
return to her shop, a violent rap was heard at the
door. It was Sophia, who entered pale with alarm,
and her dress in disorder.  Throwing her arms
around her friend, and clasping her tightly, she exclaimed:




230      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
"Save me! Oh, my poor mother, she will die
with grief! I am ruined; they have come to arrest
me. That toilet —I stole it. The police have been
notified, and they are in pursuit of me."
At this moment another rap was heard, and
Agla6 went to the door. There stood the policeman. The orphan grew more pale than the guilty
one herself; her strength failed her, and she clung
to her little bed that she might not fall to the floor.
" What do you wish, sir?"  said she.
"I have come for a young girl who has taken
refuge here with you, Sophia R-."
"What do you want with her?"
"She is accused of theft, and I am come in the
name of the law to arrest her.  Ve were at her
house, but she had left; and, from the direction
given by the porter, we have traced her here. She
is with you?"
"Yes, but she is innocent."
4"That is not your affair, miss. Search is to be
made at her house for the flowers and lace that she
has purloined from her employer."
"That is unnecessary," said Agla6. "However
guilty I may be, I cannot consent that another
should also be accused."
Whereupon she opened her wardrobe, and the
policeman beheld the articles that had been described to him as stolen.
" I am the thief," said she, resolutely, "and I am
ready to follow you."
Sophia, lost in astonishment, had not uttered one




THE TWO FRIENDS.             231
word; she could not have conceived that her friend
should employ so sublime a means of saving her.
But, as Aglae was about leaving her chamber to
follow the officer, the unfortunate girl bounded
toward her to beg and protest that she should not
make the sacrifice. Agla6, however, checked her,
and said:
" I am alone, but you have to think of your poor
mother! "
Then, placing her finger to her lips, she disappeared. Sophia wrung her hands in despair, and,
falling on her knees, she cried:
"What a wretch I am! Mfy God, my God, have
pity on me!"
Aglae was condemned to six months' imprisonment, and is now an innmate of St.-Lazare. Dear
Marie, is not such devotion admirable? When,
amid examples of so much vice, we meet with generosity like this, we become reconciled with human
nature. The young orphan bears her imprisonment
nobly. As to Sophia, she is cured- entirely of her
love of display, and will never again put her foot
inside of a public ballroom.
October 29th.
I can see, from where I am sitting, a prisoner
sitting in her cell, and occupied in braiding her hair.
There are no mirrors permitted in the cells, as you
can readily suppose, and this pretty young creature
is plaiting her magnificent black hair with a pane of




232      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
glass for her mirror. Unfortunate child! Shut up
in a prison, sloe yet allows her besetting sin to control her! Do not ask me what she has done to
bring her to this place; her vanity, without doubt,
brought her here.
How many women are lost through the love of
dress alone! Luxurious living, together with the
ambition of attracting admiration and attention, constitutes the crying evil of the age. The desire to
please, MIarie, is a natural sentiment that God has
implanted in the female heart; it is a continual
homage rendered to man, though it is from man,
paradoxical as it may appear, that our severest rebukes for this propensity emanate. At the same
time, it is but just to say that it is the excess only
of this quality which is blameworthy.
Indeed, it is difficult to comprehend why our sex
should take so much pains to captivate the other.;Vomen would succeed much better in their object
by maintaining their dignity. Let them preserve
their beauty, and turn to account the advantages
they may have received from Nature, if they will;
I find no harm in this, provided the influence they
aim to exert be of a salutary character, and that
they make use of their attractions only to make men
love virtue more. Let the wife adorn herself for her
hushand's sake, that she may make home more attractive to him, but let her not use the same means to
win the admiration of his friend. There is one fault
for which married women generally are worthy of
reproof, and it is that they indulge themselves in too




THE TWO FRIENDS.             233
great negligence in dress at home, and make too expensive and elaborate toilets for the benefit of strangers. What folly, to endeavor to please those we
only casually meet, and possibly may never see
again, while we neglect to make ourselves agreeable
to those who hold our happiness in their keeping!
November Ist.
Women are naturally jealous, and this trait often
causes them to commit the most treacherous acts,
and sometimes even the most odious crimes. I
would rather arouse the hatred of ten men, than the
jealousy of one woman. A woman's stronghold is
the heart, and, if there be any interference with the
object of her affection, her entire happiness is at
stake. How adroit and malicious will she then be
in the use of means to revenge herself!'Dear Marie, you have wit, feeling, and beauty, but, if you
should ever be tempted to play the coquette, beware of the women!
November 4th.
There is an improvement greatly needed in the
interior arrangements of St.-Lazare, especially in
that which requires each cell to contain several beds
-an arrangemelt the inconvenience of which struck
me forcibly on my first visit to this prison. First, it
makes the care of the prisoners too difficult; and, sec



231      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
ondly, the air becomes very foul in these small apartments. All the division walls-between the cells should
be removed, and one large, well-ventilated dormitory
constructed, where a few domestics could exercise
all needed vigilance. When I gave my opinion to
this effect, I was told that the building was not sufficiently strong to bear such' a change. However,
in the infirmary of the second section this has been
done already, and pillars take the place of the walls
in supporting the ceiling.
St.-Lazare was not originally intended for a
prison, and the cells are the same that were once
occupied by the Lazarist Fathers, before the Revolution. Another inconvenience strikes me as very
serious. I cannot comprehend why women under
arrest before trial (prevenues) should be sent to a
priscn like St.-Lazare. Among them must necessarily be many innocent persons, and it is not just to
bring such in contact with the guilty. It must not
be forgotten that the morals and the reputation of
a woman are like a delicate flower —once tarnished,
they remain so forever.
When the prisoners are discharged at the end of
their term, the greater part find themselves, on quitting St.-Lazare, without a home, and even in want
of indispensable clothing; it is very difficult for
them, moreover, to obtain work or employment, and
they are consequently greatly exposed to become
the prey of the " mnarchese,". who prowl around the
police quarters to entice these unfortunate creatures
into houses of vice.




THE TWO FRIENDS.             235
A young girl, twenty-one years of age, very
amiable and pretty, was conlemnled, for some trifling fault, to a month in St.-Lazare; she had no acquaintances in Paris, and was greatly distressed at
the thought of what would become of her when she
regained her liberty. A lady friend of mine consented, on my recommendation, to employ her in
the capacity of chambermaid. The poor creature
shed tears of joy at the announcement. She left
the prison, and the lady expected her day by day,
until a week passed, but she never came. I am convinced that, if I were to inquire at the office of the
prefect of police, I should find her name registered
as an inmate of some house of ill repute. She has
undoubtedly fallen into the snare set for her by some
emissary of these abodes. These creatures receive
five francs for every new subject they bring to a den
of infamy. Such prisoners as are converted from
their evil courses, and decide to withdraw from the
world, find immediate refuge in some one of the religious houses founded by the sisters of M3arie-Joseph,
established in various parts of the country, for the
reception of penitents who give hopeful signs of
perseverance. From fifty to sixty are thus received
yearly from the various sections of St.-Lazare.
However, many young women, who really desire to
lead good lives for the future, have no vocation to
become religious, consequently some secular institution is needed as an asylum for this class. An industrial establishment should be provided, where
they may at once find shelter and work, until such




236       TIIE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
time as suitable employment could be procured for
them in Paris.*
To realize this desirable object, a house furnished in the plainest manner is all that would be
needed, for the labor of the inmates would be sufficient to support it.
MIarie, there are great resources for charitable
objects in Paris; I put my trust in God, and I appeal to the sympathies of my sex, that this succor
be not long withheld, and that thus a great number
of young women may be rescued, who must otherwise be lost.
November 12tl7, four o'clock in t]ke evening.
It is Sunday: the weather is very lovely for the
season, and the western sky is radiant with golden
tints. The court-yard is crowded with the prisonels, an.d an indefinite murmur of voices is heard.
Great numbers of sparrows are sporting among the
branches of the partially-denuded trees, and their
merry song is heard above the voices of the prisoners.  The workshops are closed, the prisoners
have attended divine service, and they are now left
to recreate themselves for the remainder of the day,
and they know well how to appreciate the time.
God has designed this day as a day of rest for all
the children of men.
* See Appendix, where particulars are given of an institution
of the kind, since undertaken.




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN;
OR, RECOLLECTIONS OF A LORETTE.
I HAVE often met in the corridor of the Pistole
a handsome young woman, with brown complexion
and sparkling eyes. She is always gay, and there
is something of mockery in her smile. IHer name is
Lea, and she is imprisoned here on a charge of
swindling. She is said to have the intelligence
of an angel, and the effrontery of a demon. I expressed a desire to see something of her, and was
shown to her cell.
I found her seated at a little table sewing. She
rose on my entrance, and did the honors of her cell
as though it had been a drawing-room. I took a
seat before a little earthen stove, in which a bright
fire was burning, and asked if she felt unhappy in
St.-Lazare.
"The days are very monotonous," she replied,
" and, in a long stay, one might die of spleen. Fortunately for me, however, my recollections afford my
mind sufficient distraction."
"Recollections of what?"
"Of my past exploits,"
" They are sad ones, I think, since they conducted you to prison."




238      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
She replied, with vivacity:
"Not at all, maclame; on the contrary, my life
has been a very brilliant one, with entire liberty to
do as I pleased, without let or hinderance from any
one, and in the enjoyment of every luxury. I have
had laces and jewels in profusion, and a table elegantly supplied, for the old wines flowed into gilded
cups; blooded horses conveyed me to all the fetes
in Paris; a full share in all the pleasures within
reach, and a smiling welcome everywhere; this is
life. Wrere it all to last but a year, still, one might
then say,'I have lived.'"
As she spoke, she threw aside the work in her
hand. With a mortified feeling, I looked at her,
and said:
"But this luxurious style of living-has it not
cost you very dear?"
"Cost mne!-nothing.  Other people's fortunes
went for it all."
Seeing that I frowned at this reply, she only
burst into laughter, and continued:
"Madame, why do you compassionate men who
are fools enough to let themselves be robbed by a
woman like me?... That reminds me of the vicomte.  That dear vicomte-didn't I finish him,
though?"
" What do you mean by that?"
"Why, that I have ruined him, broken him up.
A rout, a coxcomb, a blackguard, what you please;
but Heavens! the handsomest man in Paris. In
fact, I was told, until I was tired of hearing it,




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.         239
that the women all adored the Vicomte Maximin
de -."
At the mention of that name I started, as I
thought of poor Valentine. She observed my emotion, and asked me if I knew him.
" Personally, no," replied I, " but I have heard
him spoken of. And you tell me he is a ruined
man?"' Completely ruined."
"You are mistaken; he has married a rich heiress.',
"He was on the eve of marriage when I set to
work to love him-after my fashion. MAlany a woman
had been made wretched by this man. By his marriage, he was about to plunge into despair these poor,
abandoned creatures. I resolved to break off his
marriage, and I succeeded. The first time I saw him
was at the opera, where I was attended by a Russian that I wished to rid myself of, as I had already
emptied his purse, once filled to repletion with banknotes. Between the acts, one of my friends talked
to me a great deal about the vicomte. After the
play, as we were descending the grand staircase,
she suddenly said to me:
"'There goes the fkshionable Lovelace.'
"I looked at him with curiosity, and he and I
were in fact thrown together by the pressure of the
crowd, so that the lace of my white burnous became
entangled with the buttons of his overcoat.
"After that, we encountered each other everywhere and at all hours, in the Bois de Boulogne,




240      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
upon the boulevards, walking, riding, at the theatre, and at concerts. In fifteen days from tile time
of my first meeting him, I received a bouquet from
him, just as I was entering my carriage for a drive
in the Bois de Boulogne. I laid the flowers on the
cushion of the carriage. In one of the drives of the
bois, the vicomte, on horseback, passed my carriage
and saluted me. At this, I turned away my head,
and threw his bouquet under the wheels of my caMchke. The dandy stopped, stupefied, and bit his
lips with vexation, but soon gave reins to his horse,
and galloped out of sight.
"c On my return to my apartments, I found his
servant waiting for me, who had brought me
another bouquet and a jewel-case, both of which I
returned to him again. Whereupon, the vicomte
became desperately in love with me, and determined
to plead his cause in person. After I had kept him
sufficiently long in a state of desperation, I accepted
his first present: it cost him twenty thousand francs.
Poor vicomte! I paraded him in public, and compelled him to give me his arm before everybody,
and accompany me everywhere! To such an extent
did I use my power over him, that the family of the
heiress forbade him their house.
" When men cease to be tyrants, madame, they
become weak and spiritless; then, we may ply them
with the champagne they offer to ourselves, and intoxicate them with the love they fancy we possess
for them. Meanwhile, they bedizen us with diamonds and rich toilets, for which they contract




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.         241
debts they can never pay. All his fortune was lavished on me-the chateau of his forefathers, his own
house in Paris, until finally all his sources of revenue were swallowed up.'" One morning, he himself suddenly disappeared.
When I leave St.-Lazare, I shall make the round of
the various offices in the city, and I feel sure I shall
find him at last, clerk to some notary in one of the
faubourgs."
HIere the young woman threw herself upon the
bed and broke into loud laughter.
"Lea," said I, "you are highly intelligent. If
you were only good, you would be called very accomplished."
"Madame," said she, rising from the bed, "I
have been like a devastating torrent, a devouring
flame. I am pitiless-I know it; but I am more
logical than you. That man has snatched the crown
of honor from the brow of the modest woman, and
it is lost to her forever. In a moment of caprice, he
has taken from her that which is dearer to her than
life, and then thrown her aside like a broken toy.
In the sight of God, and of Nature, we women are
worth as much as a man, madame, and, since the
laws they have made do not protect us, we must
take justice into our own hands. Milaximin has listened without pity to the sobs of his victims, and,
as a woman, you can well afford to put up with the
derision of his executioner."
As L6a stood up, with her eyes flashing fire, and
her black hair in heavy plaits above her forehead,
11




242      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
like a crown, there was something demoniac in her
appearance. Instinctively I drew back. She perceived my movement, and said, with a smile:
"Are you afraid of me, madame? Fear nothing, I shall not insnare you; I am formidable only to
men. Nevertheless, I confess to you I have had my
day of remorse, and I applied myself then to the
task of consolation."
The mocking expression of her face here disappeared, and, reseating herself, she continued:
"I remarked, among the circle of my acquaintances, a man quite comme ii faut. He could drink
his glass of champagne as well as another, and would
laugh sometimes as though he wished to stifle reflection; but I often observed him with his eyes fixed
on vacancy, and his head bowed in thought. I
said to myself,' He is unhappy, I must know the
cause.'
" One evening, when my drawing-room was brilliantly lighted up and decorated with flowers, I
passed my arm through his, and led him into my
boudoir. I questioned hlim, and he confessed to me
that he led an isolated life; that his daughter was in
a convent, his wife had gone away on a journey, and
that his empty house palled on him. The vicomte
had just disappeared, and I was free. So, the very
next day, I closed my house, sold my carriage, and
installed myself with him in furnished apartments.
" At the termination of fifteen days' intimacy, it
became my turn to be sad, which caused him to fear
that I regretted the life of luxury I had led; and he




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.          243
proposed to me to reopen my former residence, and
return to my gay salons, for he was rich enough to
support the expense.'No,'. said I,' it is simply a
caprice of mine that makes me sad. I should like
to live for one day in your own house.' After a
thousand objections, he consented, having sent
away his servants, under different pretexts, and
we took our supper at his residence, where we
were waited upon by new servants.  My object
was, to ascertain the secret of his unhappiness. For
some time, perfect silence reigned at the table. I
took care that he should drink freely, and, when the
feverish gayety which precedes drunkenness had
taken possession of him, I said to him:
"'Sir, what if your wife should return now?' I
expected that uneasiness would replace his fictitious gayety. But his muscles never twitclted. I
resumed:' And she is coming back, for I have made
known to her how you are living.'
"He leaned back on his chair, and, raising his
glass to a level with his eyes, replied:
"c' No, madame, neither you nor any person besides myself has the power of bringing her back;
for the walls of prisons securely keep those they
hold.'
"I answered:
"'Sir, I fear the wine has crazed you. We
were not speaking of a prison, but of your wife,
who is at the springs.'
He slowly swallowed the contents of his glass.
"' My wife!' he exclaimed,' what a sad story!




244      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
I always adored her, but she deceived me, and we
have long been parted.'
"He covered his face with his hands, and tears
streamed through his fingers.
"' She has left you, and gone off with a lover, no
doubt?'
"' No, I confined her in St.-Lazare, myself.'
"' Do you tell me that you have shut your own
wife up in prison?'
"' Yes. Poor Clemence! poor Marguerite!'
"'  And who is {Marguerite?'
"'My child.  I have separated her from  her
guilty mother.'
"'And you tore your child from her mother's
arms? I pity you, then, for you must have been
quite sure of the mother's guilt.'
"' No, I am not entirely sure; at times, I even
doubt if I was justified in doing as I have done.'
"'So, upon a mere suspicion, you have thrust
your wife into the society of the prostitutes of
Paris?'
"' Yes.'
"A long silence followed this response. I rested
my elbows upon the table, leaned my head on my
hands, and pondered deeply. The husband of Clemence said nothing more, but continued to drink.
When he became lost under its influence, I ordered
the wines and liquors removed, and bade the servant
close the door after him.
"'Sir,' said I,'this is a very amusing circunmstance-a wife of yours in'St.-Lazare! Do tell me




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.         245
about her love-affairs, and your own adventures; it
will divert me greatly.'
"With incoherent words and maudlin expressions, he described, sufficiently for me to comprehend, the desperation of his wife's admirer, Francis,
and the events of the last stormy interview of all
three. I listened without interruption. When he
had finished, he rose from the table, and conducted
me with staggering footsteps into the drawing-room
Withered flowers filled the vases, as they had been
placed there on the birthday of Clemence.  The
master of the house extended his hand and touched
them; this touch seemed to sober him somewhat.
He leaned his head on the back of a chair, and
sobbed.
"'No one,' said he,'has set foot in this room
since my wife left the house.' I regarded him in
silence, and a crowd of busy thoughts occupied my
brain. Whlen his emotion had subsided, my plans
were made up.
"'Sir,' said I,' give me your arm, and let us quit
this house. We will go and occupy my former
salons.'
"The next clay, I resumed my gay life. I bought
back my carriage, and gave splendid fetes, to pay
for all of which he sold every thing he possessed,
even to his wife's cashmeres. When he had nothing
more left, he came to himself, and forsook me. A
few days later, he went to the convent for his daughter, whose expenses he was now no longer able to
pay. Thence, he went to St.-Lazare, and called




246      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
for his wife. Placing the child in her arms, he
said:
"'Clemence, I am poor now; will you pardon
me, and return to me?'
She replied:
"' Since you have restored Marguerite to me, I
will try to love you.'
" Clemence behaved nobly, and, finding that her
husband was indeed poor, she has become entirely
devoted to him. They have left Paris, and the
daughter is being modestly educated and supported
by the labor of the parents. They are happy, and
I have reunited them-after my fashion."
I murmured to myself, "Poor Francis!"
"Do not be too much troubled about him," said
she; "he has distinguished himself in the army,
and lives in garrison in a remote part of France:
ten years from now, no doubt, he will marry MIarguerite." She ceased to speak, and appeared to be
busy with her thoughts.
"L6ea," said I, "what have you done with all
the fortunes placed at your command?"
" I have spent them all, madame."
" And you have laid by nothing for the future?"
"'No; what comes friom the devil goes back to
him again. I shall die in poverty."
"Then you have no thought of a possible old
age?"
" Madame, people in my position continue young
until, all at once, some day, we awake with the
weight of a hundred years upon us."




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.         247
She looked at me with an expression of melancholy, and continued:
"Madame, have you ever visited the hall of the
volontaires?"
"Yes."
"And what were your impressions?"
"It is a painful place to visit. It is on the
ground-floor of the infirmary department of the
second section, a long narrow room with fifty beds
in it. Old age is there, but old age without dignity.
There, one may see the end, in disgrace and abandonment, of many a career once as brilliant as your
own. In exchange for a short term of mad, joyous pleasure, one witnesses there faded beauty, premature decrepitude, a despicable old age, and often
a death of despair."
She bowed her head, and said:
" I shall die in the infirmary of the volontaires."
" Lea,' replied I, " you are still young; why not
abandon the life you lead?"
"It is no longer in my power."
"But have you always lived thus?"
"Oh! no, madame, one is not born a lorette:  I
have a husband, who married me for my fortune,
which he made use of to beautify his residence,
and enlarge his business. He then installed me
behind his ledgers, while he himself expended his
income on women such as I have become. For
a long time, I was in doubt about the facts; but
finally the proof of his abandonment of me was too
plain. Had Heaven granted me a child, perhaps I




248      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
should have endeavored to bring the father back;
but I was alone, and I did not attempt to mend
matters. I am too proud to be made a victim of.
So, one day, I closed my account-books, and, under
the protection of a stranger, left the business. 3Ily
husband was willing to part with his wife, on condition she left her fortune behind her.
"Madame, marriage, the most important step
one can take in life, is often nothing but a matter
of traffic. The touch of gold is corrupting-yet,
between husband and wife stands the agent of corruption, her dowry. Let the dowry " (as recognized
in European law and. custom) " be done away with,
and then marriage will be a contract based on freedom of choice. Restore this freedom of contract,
and marriage, as an institution, will regain its original nobility, and once more hold out hopes of mutual happiness to the contracting parties."
" Lea," observed I, "why, when you leave St.Lazare, will you not return to your husband? You
might still be happy."
She shook her head and replied:
l'y husband has squandered my money, as I
have squandered the fortunes of my protectors. He
has been succeeded in business by a former clerk,
an intelligent man, who will become rich, and who
has just married a portionless young woman of
honorable character. She had been entrapped into
a mnaison de tolerance, and, escaping from it, took
refuge in his establishment, where she obtained employment."




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.          249
"What! Adeline? " I exclaimed.
"Yes, that is her name; do you know her? "
"No; but I know all her history."'C Well, madame, she sits at the same desk where
my husband placed me the day after our marriage.
She will be happy, for she had no fortune, and she
married from choice. Her husband chose her for
her virtue, and not for her money."
At this point, the door of the cell was opened,
and a domestic entered, bringing Lea's dinner. She
removed her sewing from the table to the bed, and,
when the dinner was set out, I perceived it to consist of a vol-au-vent, a terrine de foie-gras, some fruit,
and a bottle of Bordeaux. As this was not prison
fare, it must be remembered that those confined in
the pistoles, and the prevenues, have the privilege
of sending outside, through the commissioners of
the prison, for any kind of food they desire.
As I rose to take my leave, the young woman
tossed off a glass of wine, and the melancholy which
had overcast her features gave place to her usual
animated expression. She accompanied me to the
door, and, as I was taking leave, she said:
"Madame, in future, I beg you will refrain from
condemning such persons as myself, for we have our
sphere of usefulness in society."
"I am not so sure of that," replied I.
"I insist, madame, if you please-and you can
see it for yourself-that we are instruments in the
hands of God, with which, in His wrath, He scourges
the wicked. We are the fruit of despotism, and,




250      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
when tyranny disappears from society, the lorette
will disappear also."
XNovember 20th.
I can write but little, my dear friend, for my
health is still failing. I have just read over this
manuscript, and have come to the conclusion that it
is very imperfect, owing no doubt to the fact that,
in writing, I have merely followed the impulses of
my heart. You will find my ideas imperfectly expressed; but, with one of your intelligence, a little
reflection will develop my thought. From what I
have written, I also conclude that I have a sincere
affection for womankind. In fact, I have always
been led to pass a severe judgment on those who
do not love their sex. Meanwhile, if a mal should
chance to read this manuscript, he would do wrong
to accuse me of injustice to his sex, so long as my
aim has been to render the wife good and useful in
her sphere.
I have inculcated principles of economy, and
urged that woman should occupy herself with her
household duties, and strive to render her home
happy, for her children's and husband's sake, as well
as make it attractive to her friends. I have urged
upon her the necessity of industrious habits, and of
frugality in the expenditure of icney.
Above all, I have endeavored to show women
the necessity of having their daughters educated at
home, under their own supervision. If husbands
really understood their own interests, and wished to




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.          251
place their happiness on a secure basis, they would
use their endeavors, also, to make home attractive
to their wives, by creating agreeable occupations
for them.
What task can be sweeter for a mother than
to occupy herself constantly with her children?
The wife, left free by the withdrawal of her children from their home, is not in a favorable position
for sustaining either the honor or the welfare of her
family. The child at home is necessarily the safeguard of the mother's reputation.
November 24tk.
I have heard from Valentine. She is still in the
central prison at —. On the expiration of some
portion of the term  for which she has been sentenced, application will be made for her pardon, and
hopes are entertained that she will regain her liberty. She is resigned, but her heart often turns
lovingly toward the green hills of her native Normandy, where Andr6, ever faithful, still waits her
coming, and, notwithstanding the past, intends to
bestow upon her his name.
November 26/h.
I am to-day very sick, Marie, and I am thinking
seriously of leaving St.-Lazare, and even Paris, altogether.




252      THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
December Ist,
Marie, I set out to-morrow; I am about to turn
my back upon the dear inmates of the prison. Although they have given me much painful thought,
I love them, doubtless because they have made me
suffer. It may be that what I have witnessed of
their miseries, and of their errors and crimes, has so
weighed upon me as to hasten the progress of my
cisease, and shorten my path to the tomb. Should
I die soon, MIarie, promise me not to forget my unhappy prisoners: do not despise them, but rather
protect them, and implore virtuous and wealthy
women to assist them. Replace me, but never give
my name to the public. I prefer that my solitary
tomb should be watered by your tears alone. I ask
only a prayer from the stranger who shall pass it
by, and to be forgotten by the world besides!
Thus ends the manuscript of my friend..
She went to inhale the health-giving air of the
south of France, where the tuberose and the orangeblossom shed their perfume.  By short stages, she
passed through France, never resting  until she
reached the shores of the blue sea. As she journeyed thither, and began to feel the influence of a
more genial climate, her health appeared to revive,
but the amelioration was more apparent than real.
My friend dwelt for some time near the Mediterranean. She loved to bathe her emaciated hands in
the white foam -which the tide threw up on the
strand, but she wrote no more.




LIFE WITH A FREE REIN.          253
On the 24th of December, 1865, one bright and
sunny day, while seated in her easy-chair before the
open window, she fell asleep. On awaking, slhe exclaimed:
" Ah! I have seen my dear prisoners once more.
A purple haze floated over St.-Lazare  angels were
kneeling in the chapel; women of majestic presence
appeared in the corridors; the sisters seemed to be
beings transfigured; tears still flowed from the eyes
of the prisoners, but they were tears of joy and of
repentance; they were about to abandon their criminal paths, and were protected by the generous and
influential of their sex."
Here, overcome by weakness, she paused to regain strength, and continued:
"During all my life, I have never ceased to utter
and repeat a demand, which the sufferers of my sex
have reechoed far and wide, and which will one day
make itself heard in thunder-tones. That it will be
so heard, is the hope I carry with me to the tomb.
Yes," continued she, with kindling eyes, and extended arms, " I demand for my sex, respect for the
virtuous, pity for the fallen, and succor for the unfortunate!"
She ceased, exhausted, and life seemed ebbing
fast, after this effort. Restoratives were applied,
and her forehead was bathed with cold water, after
which she opened her eyes, and, pointing to a desk,
said feebly:
"Look in that."
A manuscript in many sheets was found with



254:     THE PRISONERS OF ST.-LAZARE.
in, which was brought and placed upon her
knees.
"This," said she, in accents scarcely audible, " is
for M3arie. When I die let it be sent to her. She
must now have returned to Paris."
Raising her eyes toward the beam of sunlight
which penetrated her chamber, she added:
"I seem to see a white dove, which has gathered
in its beak the tears I have shed over St.-Lazaretears which will descend again in consoling dew."
These were her last words on earth. She kissed
the crucifix, looked once more to heaven, and died,
resting her hand on the manuscript of "Les Condamn~es de St.-_Lazare."
I have received these pages, then, as a legacy impressed by her hand, when moist with the sweat of
death; they have since been covered with my kisses,
and blotted with my tears. After repairing to St.Lazare, to cast myself upon my knees in the now
deserted chamber where she labored, prayed, and
suffered, I resolved to publish "The Prisoners of
St.-Lazare," and to publish it without the change of
a word-for the writings of the dead should be held
sacred. If the work shall bring about the good
anticipated by my friend, her memory is destined to
be held in perpetual honor. She herself has passed
away, unnoticed, like a humble flower of the field;
but the truest glory for her, as for all of us, is that
glory which irradiates the darkness of the tomb.




APPEND IX.
ASYLUI FOR PRISONERS DISCHARGED FROiM
ST.-LAZARE.
THE Prison of St.-Lazare is well known to be the only
one in Paris where females are confined. Women under
arrest, and awaiting trial (prevenues), those tried and sentenced (condamnenes), young girls sent for correction, and
females already embarked in evil courses, constitute its inmates. They are divided into two distinct classes. Those
who have been guilty of minor offences, or who are simply
under arrest, form one class, and those who are proved
guilty of serious offences the other. The former occupy
the first section of St.-Lazare, the latter the second.
Heretofore, this distinction has not been kept in view by
the public, nor has either one class or the other been the
object of any special provision at the period of liberation.
Houses of reformation are open to fallen women, but there
is none to receive those discharged from St.-Lazare, either
from the first or second section. It is to supply this need
that the above-mentioned asylum has been proposed, which
is intended especially for a house of preservation. Its value
in this respect is apparent from the fact that the discharged
prisoners, finding themselves abandoned by all, return to
St.-Lazare, not to enter the first section, but to take their
place among the criminals of the second, and perhaps only
to become confirmed in their wicked courses.




256                   APPENDIX.
There is, in the life of every woman who has fallen into
the hands of justice, a critical, nay, a terrible moment. Is
it that of her arrest? of her entrance into St.-Lazare? or,
may be when she is arraigned and found guilty?  No;
none of these. Those events must indeed leave an indelible impression behind them; but there is another ordeal
still more painful before her, and that is, her final discharge
from prison. We have seen women faint away on recrossing the prison threshold, and wvelcome their return to liberty with tears of anguish. Alas! that there should be
such legitimate cause for sorrow —that a life returned to
freedom should be so filled with bitterness! Ordinarily,
the liberated one finds herself an outcast from her family.
Her friends have abandoned her, her position in society is
lost, and, having no home of her own, she is generally
obliged to seek shelter in some lodging-house.
As the detenues stay but a short time in St.-Lazare,
they can have earned but little money, or no more than
suffices to defiay their first needful expenses. The prison
authorities furnish to the inmates nothing but bed-linen,
and no personal clothing that is allowed to be taken away,
and thus, after only a few months' imprisonment, those who
are discharged necessarily leave the establishment in worn
and dilapidated garments. The proprietor of the apartment which had been occupied by the prisoner before her
arrest has, meanwhile, sold her furniture to pay the rent,
or whatever might have been left has been scattered or destroyed. If she had been in business, her customers will
have transferred their patronage elsewhere, and misery
stares her in the face. She decides to go out to service,
but she has no certificate of character to show, no references to give. Then it is, she clearly perceives the position
she is in, and often there is no refuge for her but in the
waters of the Seine, or at the "Bureau does Miurs."  In




APPENDIX.                   257
view of this heart-rending situation, a very simple idea,
and one that may have suggested itself to the lady readers
of this book, presents itself to the mind: which is, the
opening of a house where these homeless women may be
received for a time, and where they may obtain shelter,
food, and clothing, and, thus finding means of support,
they may be preserved from  immediate danger.  We
desire that this house should prove to the inmates of
St.-Lazare, sick in soul, what the Asylum of Vesinet is to
the sick in body, when they leave our hospitals-a house
of moral convalescence; that it may be a place of transition from the prison to the world again, where the inmates
may have an opportunity of purifying themselves by repentance, and of strengthening themselves in their good resolutions; and where, treated with kindness, they may forget
their debasement, and learn to respect themselves; a house
where they will learn to love-that society they have heretofore hated.  Here they will gain a livelihood by their
own labor, and will be qualified to support themselves
respectably hereafter. By due attention to the laws of
health as here enforced, they may repair their enfeebled
physical forces, and be better prepared to maintain moraldignity in their intercourse with the world to which they
are about to return. We hope, at no distant day, when
our means shall permit, to have place in this house not
only for discharged female prisoners, but, in a division by
themselves, for all women who may be without homes and
without work, and who are now obliged to seek either one
or the other at St.-Lazare.




258                   APPENDIX.
Extracts from  thle Rules for the Government of the Institution, adopted February 5, 1870.
ARTICLE I. An establishment is hereby founded as a
house of preservation or employment for the discharged
prisoners of St.-Lazare. It will receive a special designation when it shall have been opened for use. There will
be admitted into this house
1. Women who, having been arrested or sentenced to
punishment by the correctional police, will find themselves, after their discharge from prison, without a home,
and will thus be exposed to the danger of falling into immorality.
2. Insonmises repentantes, women guilty of irregularities of which they repent, and whom it is desired to save
from registration, as professional characters, at the "Bureau des'leeurs."
3. Young women who, being temporarily without asylum or resource, are subject to be arrested and sent to St.Lazare, having no visible means of support.  These women shall be divided into three distinct classes, as follows:
1. Discharged prisoners, whether prevenues or condamnees, who, after reformation, shall either be returned to
their families or be placed at service in Paris, under the
surveillance of lady patronesses.
2. Young insoumises (those unregistered) who, after
changing their lives, shall be sent free of expense to Algeria, to a house especially prepared for their reception,
and where their future interests will be cared for. As to
females who may apply for a temporary home (the third
class), they will leave the house as soon as work can be
procured for them elsewhere.




APPENDIX.                   259
AnT. II. In order to accomplish the end in view, a
house shall be bought or rented, which shall be furnished
with beds and all other necessary furniture. All expenses
of persons admitted to the house shall be defrayed by
means donated, until the proceeds of the labor performed
at the institution shall afford sufficient revenue.
AnT. VI. The affairs of the house shall be managed by
an administrative council of gentlemen, who will have
charge of all mnatters of finance, litigations, etc., and the
interior affairs of the house will be under the care of lady
patronesses.
AnRT. XI. The lady treasurer shall keep all business
documents connected with the institution open to examination. Every receipt shall be detached from a book which
shall present its duplicate. An account of receipts and
expenses shall be open to the inspection of all contributors
to the institution, and of all agents of the civil authorities.
This undertaking in behalf of the discharged prisoners
of St.-Lazare should not be the exclusive work of one person; it should enlist the cooperation of all. It should be
sustained by the mite of the poor, as well as by the ample
contributions of the rich. If society has its evils, it should
know how to repair them, and valiantly carry the requisite
burdens.  We therefore call upon all true and noble-hearted women, and upon all men charitably disposed, to aid
us. by every means in their power, to found this house of
moral convalescence. We ask not only their charitable
offerings, but, above all, their moral cooperation, as well
as their sympathy and pity for our liberated prisoners,




200                  APPENDIX.
that henceforward the latter may have one place in the
cold world where they may be allowed to repent and
reform.
All persons desirous of cooperating in this undertaking
are requested to address Mlle. Michel de Grandpr6, Directress of Work, at St.-Lazare, or Mons. Honor6 Arnoul,
General Secretary, 44 rue des Batignolles. All donations
to be sent to Mme. Frederic Dollfus, Treasurer, 45 rue de
Chabrol.
THE END.




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AT FIFTY CENTS PER VO.L U-IE.
Randsomely printed, from large, clear type, on good paper, and of
convenient size. 121mo.
VWith an Illustrated Cover.
PRI C, FI:ITY  C~rTs.
THE WHOLE CONSISTS OF
L. Midshipman  Easy.
I. Peter Simple.
III. Jacob Faithful.
IV. Naval Officer.
V. King's Own.
VI. Japhet in Search of a  Father.
VII. Newton  Forster.
VIII. Pacha of Many Tales.
IX. The Poacher.
X. The Phantom Ship.
XI. Snarleyow.
XIh. Percival Keene.
Tho entire Set will be sent, post-free, on receipt of $5.50. Any
volume sent, post-free, on receipt of the price.
D, APPLETON & CO0,, Publishera