Part 22

“My first day’s march after leaving Irbite was very hard, and at night I found myself quite worn out. The heavy clothes I wore added to my fatigue, and still I did not dare throw them off. At nightfall I ran to the thickest part of the forest and began to prepare my bed. I knew the method used by the Ostiakes to shelter themselves in their deserts of ice; they simply hollow out a deep hole under a great heap of snow, and in that way find a bed--a hard one in truth, but a good warm one. I did the same, and soon found the repose of which I stood greatly in need.”

On the morrow he lost his way, and after wandering about almost the whole of the day, he found himself at nightfall on a road which fortunately happened to be the right one. Seeing a small house not far from a hamlet, he resolved on asking shelter there: it was not denied him. He gave himself out for a workman seeking employment in the iron works of Bohotole, in the Oural. He played his part to the best of his ability, but was thought to be too well clothed and furnished with linen for a workman, and was woke from his first sleep by peasants asking for his passport. With the greatest coolness he showed them the pass ticket, the only one he had left; fortunately the sight of the seal was sufficient for these self-appointed gendarmes, who begged his pardon for having taken him for an escaped convict.

“The rest of the night I spent very quietly, and the next day took leave of those whose hospitality was so near growing fatal to me. This incident carried a sad conviction to my mind that I could never ask shelter for the night of any human being without exposing myself to the greatest risks, and the Ostiake bed must be, until further notice, my only place of repose. I had, in short, to put up with this Ostiake style of sleeping during the whole of the time I was crossing from the Oural mountains to Veliki-Oustioug; that is, from the middle of February to the beginning of April. Three or four times only dared I beg hospitality for the night in some isolated hut, worn out by fifteen or twenty days’ march in the forest, almost exhausted, and scarcely knowing what I did. Every other night I was satisfied with digging out a hole to lie in, and by degrees became accustomed to that way of sleeping. Sometimes at nightfall I even found myself going towards the thick part of the wood, as to a well-known inn; at other times I confess this savage kind of life became intolerable to me. The absence of any

human habitation, the want of hot food, and even of frozen bread, my only nourishment for whole days sometimes, made me face in all their terrible reality those two hideous spectres called cold and hunger. In moments like these I dreaded specially the fits of drowsiness that suddenly came over me, for they were evident invitations to death, against which I fought with the little strength I had left. And now and then the craving for hot food became so strong in me, that it was with the greatest difficulty I resisted the temptation of begging in some hut for a few spoonfuls of the root soup of Siberia.”

After slowly climbing the heights of the Ourals, he at last crossed them on a fine night; but his troubles were precisely the same on the western side of the mountains. On one occasion, during a snowstorm he lost his way, passed a horrible night in the agonies of hunger, and at daybreak, while trying to find the path, he fell exhausted at the foot of a tree. The sleep, which in these regions is the forerunner of death, had already fallen on him, when he was saved by a trapper who was crossing the forest. This kind man gave him a little brandy and a few mouthfuls of bread, told him to take heart, pointed out to him a house of refuge, and disappeared in the woods.

“When I saw the house in the distance, my joy was beyond all description; I would have gone to it, I think, even had I known it to be full of gendarmes. I got as far as the door; but no sooner had I crossed the threshold, than I fell down and rolled under a wooden bench.”

After a few minutes of complete insensibility, he came to himself, and not being able to touch the food offered him by his host, he fell into a sleep which lasted twenty-four hours; kindly taken care of all the while by the landlord, who became doubly attentive when he found the traveller to be a pilgrim going to the holy island of the White Sea. That was the character taken by the fugitive; he had transformed himself into a _bohomolets_ (worshipper of God) going to salute the holy images of the convent of Solovetsk, near Archangel. Protected by the respect and sympathy with which this title inspires a Russian peasant, M. Piotrowski managed, without much trouble, to get to Veliki-Oustioug, and was well received there by his brethren the _bohomolets_, who were waiting in large numbers in that town for the thaw which would permit them to embark on the _Dwina_ for Archangel. After a month’s stay in the midst of them, during which he established his reputation as a good pilgrim by the punctuality with which he performed all his duties, he embarked on one of the many boats collected for that special service, and hired himself to the captain as a rower during the crossing, for the usual sum of fifteen roubles in notes, that sum being exactly what he had spent during his journey from Irbite. About a fortnight after his arrival at Veliki-Oustioug, he landed at Archangel, the point on which all his expectations were centred; for he hoped that in the port, which was much frequented by ships of all nations, he should find one vessel that would bring him over to France or England. Without neglecting the religious duties which the title of pilgrim imposed on him, nor the precautions the neglect of which might endanger him, he sought in vain during two long days for this saviour ship. On the deck of each vessel stood, night and day, a Russian sentinel; and along the whole length of the quays, to be able to cross the line of sentinels, it was necessary to give explanations and papers, a demand which the fugitive could not dream of subjecting himself to. Relinquishing then, not without grief, his long cherished hopes, he took the road to Onéga, as a pilgrim who having visited the holy images of Solovetsk, was going to Kiow “to salute the sacred bones.” After many adventures, more or less agreeable, he arrived at Vytiegra. He was accosted on the quay by a peasant who asked him where he was going, and proposed to take him in his boat to St. Petersburg. He engaged himself to the man as a rower, and on the passage had occasion to render some services to a poor old peasant woman also going to St. Petersburg. On entering the harbour the unhappy fugitive felt great anxiety as to how he could avoid the police on landing, and where he should lodge, etc. All at once his protégé, the old peasant woman, said, “Stay near me. My daughter, who knows of my arrival, is coming to meet me, and will find you a good lodging-house.” He landed, and carrying the old woman’s trunk, went to the same inn with her. There still remained the difficulty about the passport and police. He much feared that his hostess would prove exacting on this point; but, on being questioned by him as to the formalities to be gone through, she said, he need not trouble to call on the police for two or three days. Being easy on this score, he went the next day towards the harbour, furtively scanning as he walked,--for a Russian peasant ought not to know how to read,--the advertisements on many steam packets announcing the time of their departure.

“All at once my eyes fell on an announcement in large letters placed near the mast of one of the steamers, to the effect that this ship was to leave for Riga the next day. I saw a man walking on the deck with his red shirt worn over his trousers, _à la Russe_, but not daring to speak to him, I remained satisfied with devouring him with my eyes. In the meantime the sun went down; it was already seven in the evening, when suddenly the man with the red shirt raised his head, and called to me:--

“‘Do you happen to want to go to Riga? If you do, come here.’

“‘I do certainly want to go; but what means has a poor man like me of taking the steamboat? It must cost a great deal, and is not for such as I am.’

“‘And why not come? We won’t ask much from a _moujik_ like you.’

“‘How much?’

“He mentioned some price which I do not quite remember now, but which astonished me--it was so small.

“‘Well, does that suit you? Why do you still hesitate?’

“‘Why, I have only just arrived to-day, and I must have my passport looked to by the police.’

“‘Oh, your police will detain you three days, and the boat starts to-morrow morning.’

“‘What’s to be done?’

“‘Why, start without having it looked at.’

“‘Yes; and if some misfortune happened to me?’

“‘Fool! you, a _moujik_, teach me what I have to do! Have you got your passport with you? Show it.’

“I pulled from my pocket my pass-ticket, carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief, after the fashion of all the Russian peasants; but he spared himself the trouble looking at it, and said,--

“‘Come to-morrow morning at seven; and if you don’t see me, wait for me. Now, be off with you.’

“I joyfully returned home, and the next morning was punctual at the rendezvous. The man soon perceived me, but only said, ‘Give me the money!’ He went off, but immediately returned, bringing me a yellow ticket, which of course I pretended not to know anything about: a circumstance which occasioned another gracious observation,--‘Hold your tongue _moujik_, and don’t trouble yourself.’ The bell rang three times, the passengers crowded together, a rough blow from my companion drove me after them, and the ship was in full motion. I thought I was in a dream.”

From Riga, M. Piotrowski, still travelling on foot, soon reached the frontier without difficulty. He had slightly modified his costume, but still kept the distinct garment of a Russian--the little bornous of sheepskin. He called himself a pork merchant, which allowed of his asking on the road all necessary information. Having once ascertained all the obstacles he could possibly encounter on his way from Russia to Prussia, he succeeded in crossing the frontier in open daylight, in spite of the shots fired at him; and taking refuge in a wood, where he cut off his beard, and transformed his costume, leaving behind him all the signs of a Russian peasant, he arrived at last at Kœnigsberg. But when he thought himself all but saved, a circumstance occurred that nearly proved his ruin. He had resolved on journeying by steamer to Elbing, and towards evening he sat down on some ruins, thinking of going at nightfall in the fields to sleep on some hay, while waiting the time for departure; but, quite tired out, he fell asleep, and was woke by a night guard, who, not satisfied with his answers, took him to the first police-station. He at once volunteered the statement that he was a French workman, who had lost his passport, but he was put in prison. A month afterwards he was called again before the police, his statements were proved to be false, and he was clearly allowed to see that the grossest suspicions were afloat concerning him. Tired of concealment, and especially irritated at being taken for a malefactor in hiding, he at last declared himself. A recent treaty between Prussia and Russia obliged these two countries mutually to give up their fugitives. The Prussian authorities on hearing the declaration of M. Piotrowski, were mute with consternation; thinking it quite impossible to elude the convention. But steps were taken by the principal inhabitants of Kœnigsberg, and by many persons of high rank, which Government itself evidently shrank from opposing. M. Piotrowski soon after was informed that an order had come from Berlin, enjoining his being given up to the Russians, but that time would be allowed him to escape at his own risk; and by the help of his generous friends, he was next day on his road to Dantzic.

“I had, he says, letters for different people, in all the towns of Germany I had to cross, and everywhere I found the same zeal to render my journey more comfortable. Thanks to all the help, that failed me in no place, I had very quickly crossed the whole of Germany, and on the 22nd September, 1846, I found myself again in that Paris that I had quitted four years ago.”

_ESCAPE OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON FROM THE FORTRESS OF HAM._

In the summer of 1840, Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Emperor of the French, landed with a number of adherents at Boulogne, to assert his claim to the French throne, as the nephew and heir of the first Napoleon. It had been represented to the prince by his friends that the people were everywhere ill-affected, and would rise in insurrection against King Louis Philippe, as soon as any one bearing the great name of Napoleon appeared on the soil of France. Events, however, proved that these councillors were wrong; the people did not rise, and the prince and his followers, to the number of fifty-three, were captured and sent to Paris. After a trial, which attracted the attention of Europe, on account of the eloquence of the advocates on both sides, and the great names and issues concerned, thirty-three of the prisoners were discharged, nineteen received sentences ranging from a few months to twenty years’ imprisonment, and the prince was ordered into close confinement for life.

The sentence was read to his highness in his solitary cell in the Conciergerie at four o’clock in the afternoon of October 26th; and without exhibiting the least emotion, he remarked, “Then I shall at least die on the soil of France.” A few hours afterwards, in speaking of the sentence, he said, “You say _perpetual_ imprisonment; but just as ‘impossible’ used to be a word unknown to the French, so I suspect it will be with the word _perpetual_ in this instance.” It is needless to add that the prince’s prophecy was fulfilled; for instead of lasting for life, his imprisonment endured some five years and nine months, when it came to an end in the manner we shall hereafter relate. It will be necessary to say a few words upon the prison itself, and some of the prince’s fellow-captives, to make the narrative more easily understood.

The prince was removed, after sentence, to the fortress of Ham. This fortress is about ninety miles to the north-east of Paris; and with the exception of a few houses which have sprung up around it in the form of a very small town, the gloomy building stands almost in the centre of a great treeless plain. The greater part of the castle was rebuilt between four and five hundred years ago, but there are still portions of the wall which date from the seventh and eighth centuries. In the interior, at the time of the prince’s incarceration, there were two low, dilapidated brick buildings, serving as barracks for the garrison, which consisted of 400 men. It was at the end of one of these that the state prisoners were kept, in two or three rooms which the friends of the captives declared were dirty, damp, and dark; and as they were only removed from the old ivy-covered walls of the fort by a few feet, it is not to be wondered at if they were not particularly dry. In these apartments lived the prince, Dr. Conneau, his physician (who had been sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for his share in the invasion of Boulogne), and the Count and Countess Montholon; the former undergoing a term of twenty years for the same reason as Dr. Conneau, and the latter having received permission to reside with her husband. Besides these, there was a faithful manservant named Thelin, who had followed the prince’s fortunes in various countries, and had been tried with the rest, but was acquitted. With much trouble this man had obtained leave from the minister of the interior to share his master’s imprisonment. We must not forget to mention a large dog to which the prince was much attached, which was named after the prison, “Ham.” The reader has now before him the entire household, the members of which passed so many dreary years and months together.

The guard kept over the prisoners was a very careful one. The commandant, M. Demarle, although a kind-hearted man, was a strict disciplinarian; and took every precaution, in accordance with his instructions, to keep his captives safe. Sixty soldiers, besides a number of warders, were constantly on duty; one keeper was always stationed at the door of the prince’s room, and two at the bottom of his stairs; and he was never allowed to either walk or ride around the courtyard of the fortress without armed attendants.

It should be stated, however, that the servant Thelin, as he was only residing in the castle of his own free will, was allowed to go in and out on errands; but this only with a pass from the governor. Nor were all these precautions unnecessary; for before the prince had been long in confinement, there were rumours that the working men of Paris, and some of the other large towns, among whom the Bonapartes were at that time very popular, were about to march on Ham to release their friend.

At one time it was stated that a body of 2000 had actually started on the expedition; and the Government, in a panic, hastily sent down several regiments of horse and foot to strengthen the garrison.

These energetic measures either frightened the revolutionists, or they changed their plans; for it is certain that beyond a few little groups who used occasionally to cheer the prince when he appeared with his keepers on the walls, no demonstration of any kind was ever actually made.

As with most men of education undergoing state imprisonment, the prince passed his time chiefly in study and in writing to his friends outside and to the newspapers. Every letter, however, either to or from the prisoner, had not only to pass through the governor’s hands, but to be read by him. He also occupied himself in gardening, of which he was very fond; and now and then, by the direct permission in writing of the minister of the interior, a visitor was allowed to enter the castle, but this was a privilege very rarely afforded.

The following systematic division of the day was rigidly adhered to by the prince. He rose early, and studied until ten. Then breakfasted and walked half an hour for exercise around the parapet of the fort, where a space of 100 feet by 60 had been allotted for the purpose. He then retired to his room, and read and corresponded with the outside world until dinner, which was between seven and eight. In the evenings, there was usually conversation and a game at whist, in which the governor frequently joined, after seeing that all the doors were locked, and the guards properly posted for the night. In this quiet manner the little household passed their days, waiting and watching for events which should either induce the Government to grant a pardon, or afford the prince an opportunity of effecting his escape.

Louis Napoleon, however, did not allow any chance of exciting the sympathy of the people in his behalf to pass by. In spite of the precautions which were adopted, he several times got spirited literary articles smuggled out of the prison by his friends, and published in Paris. These were usually in the form of comments upon passing events, but were so written that the object was only transparently veiled. For instance, when the remains of the first Napoleon were brought back to France from St. Helena, on the 15th of December, 1840, we find him dating a touching letter from his “prison at Ham,” addressed “to the manes of” his “uncle.” In this, approaching the dead emperor, he says:--

“Sire,--You return to your capital, and the people in multitudes hail your return; but I, from the depths of my dungeon, can discern but a ray of that sun which shines upon your obsequies. Be not displeased with your family because they are not there to receive you. Your exile and your misfortunes have ceased with your life, but ours continue still.

“You have died upon a rock, far from your country and kindred; the hand of a son has not closed your eyes.

“Even to-day no relative will follow your bier!

“Montholon, whom you loved the most among your faithful companions, rendered you the service of a son. He remains faithful to your thoughts, to your last wishes. He has brought to me your last words. He is in prison with me.

“A French vessel, conducted by a noble young man, went to claim your ashes; but it is in vain you would seek upon the deck any one of your kindred--your family were not there.

“In landing upon the soil of France, an electric shock was felt. You raised yourself in your coffin. Your eyes for a moment re-opened, the tricolour flag floated upon the shore; but your eagle was not there. The people press, as in other times upon your passage; they salute you with their acclamations as if you were living; but the great men of the day in rendering you homage, in suppressed voice say, ‘_God grant that he may not awake_.’”

When nearly six years had elapsed, the prince had received letters containing news of the critical state of his father’s health, and accordingly made great efforts to obtain permission to visit him. To this end he wrote several times to the ministers, and even to the king himself, promising on his word of honour to return and place himself at the Government’s disposal, whenever called upon to do so. All his efforts however were unsuccessful. The king was said to favour his release, but the ministers were firm in their refusal. Finding therefore that escape was his only remedy, the prince resolved upon making the attempt. After several long and earnest conferences with his faithful friends, it was decided that the effort should be made in May.

The first thing to be done was to throw the governor off his guard as much as possible; for which purpose letters were written from various persons in Paris to the prisoners, telling them that the Government was shortly about to grant a general amnesty, and congratulating them upon it. These being carefully read by M. Demarle, were of course calculated to make him less apprehensive of any attempt at flight, than from his knowledge of the failure of the prince’s effort to procure permission to visit his father, he would otherwise have been. About this time, too, fortune favoured the plot in a way that the actors in it had scarcely ventured to reckon upon.