Translated and Adapted from the French.
Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #12 (18 Mar 1852).
In 1800 I found myself, for political causes, the inhabitant of a French prison. I was very young, and arrested on mere suspicion, but neither youth nor age afforded any safeguard against arrest, and its frequent consequence—the guillotine. The gaoler was an honest man, kind in his way, and disposed to fulfil the harsh duties of his office as tenderly as might be. His wife was in bad health, and generally confined to her room; but she employed as her representative an old woman named Lidivine, or, as the poor prisoners called her, La Divine. She was upwards of seventy years old, but as active, lively, and diligent, as if she had been but forty.
I fancy now that I can see her, in her clean white cap and kerchief, her close-fitting black dress, and round her neck a narrow velvet ribbon, once black, but then rusty from long wear. A strong and salutary influence did this meek old woman, with her low quiet voice and soft sweet eyes, exercise over the fiercest and wildest spirits in our prison. Whenever a tumult occurred, the gaoler sent no armed soldiers amongst the insurgent captives; he sent to them "Mother Lidivine," and in a moment all was calm.
Her grandson, Pierre, acted as one of the turnkeys: he was a gentle, delicate-looking lad, more fitted, as I thought, for a quite village hamlet, than a gaol. His words and actions, like his Master's kingdom, were not of this world.
The cell which I and two others occupied was generally opened in the morning by Pierre. One day the bolts were pushed back, and the lock turned with a violent grating noise, unmindful of our broken sleep, and announcing the visit of the other turnkey, Nicholas. This man was never made for his office, which, however, he tried to fulfil with what he deemed a befitting severity of demeanour. He always spoke in a hoarse growling voice, knitting his eyebrows (which manfully resisted his efforts) into a convulsive sort of frown. As these combined manœuvres, made against the grain, cost him much trouble, he generally turned his back when he wanted to speak with especial roughness. One day he was fairly caught shedding tears over a dying prisoner, who was giving his wife a last embrace; but as he wiped his eyes, he tried to disguise his emotion by opening his snuff-box and snuffing at a great rate. There are many men in the world like Nicholas, who don a rough exterior to conceal a gentle spirit.
"Where is Pierre to-day?" I asked.
"Pierre! Pierre! indeed," he answered sharply. "'Tis always Pierre you ask for. One would think no one else could serve your turn. What does he do for you that I can't do? Does he bring you anything but a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water? Here's the loaf and here's the pitcher. If you want Pierre, you must go look for him—he's in the dungeon."
"Pierre in the dungeon!" I exclaimed. "Impossible! What has he done?"
"How should I know what he has done? What business is it of mine? Mayhap 'twas a door opened too soon, or a door shut too late; a letter conveyed to a prisoner without having been read by the authorities. Some foolish piece of kindness towards one of ye. He's quite capable of doing it—the young simpleton."
While speaking, Nicholas kept his back perseveringly turned towards us.
"'Tis dreadful—infamous!" I exclaimed, "such an unlawful abuse of power. The dungeon is a heavy punishment; how can it be inflicted on a free man without the authority of the law?"
This time Nicholas looked at me fixedly. "And do you really think," he said, "that your friend Pierre is a man like me, free to ask for his wages and walk out of the house? I tell you he is a prisoner, like yourself; with this difference, that you may be tried, acquitted, and set free to-morrow by the gentlemen above, while Pierre has still thirteen years to spend in prison. He was too young to be guillotined when they sent him here, seven years ago."
He abruptly quitted the cell, before I could question him, as I longed to do, on the history of Lidivine and Pierre.
On the next day, according to the prognostic of Nicholas, I was tried and acquitted. One of the first uses which I made of my liberty was to inquire into the story of my two friends.
They had lived all their lives, I was told, in a cottage in a country hamlet. There, in 1793, a minister of religion took refuge, and brought the comforts of the gospel to the poor people amongst whom he sojourned. The agents of the revolutionary tyrants surprised him one day while officiating for a little flock of fifteen souls. Like a martyr of old, he was led to the scaffold, where thirteen of the villagers also perished, after having received his last benediction. Lidivine and her grandson alone were spared, and sent to prison for twenty years. The gaoler and his wife, perceiving their honest kindliness of character, soon began to employ them as assistants, and thus the rigour of their fate was lightened. Now better times had come.
Aided by the influence of some friends, I used all possible exertions to obtain a remission of their sentence, and in time, after much trouble, succeeded. As soon as I received the order for their liberation, I flew with it to the prison.
It was four o'clock on a beautiful spring afternoon, and the prisoners were enjoying (even in prison there is something to enjoy) their recreation in the open court. I ran towards Lidivine and Pierre, and grasped their hands in turn. "You are free!" I exclaimed.
At first they scarcely understood me; but the next moment their fellow captives, crowding round with tears and embraces, explained my words. Then there was a pause—a grave, sad silence. Lidivine looked at the women, the sick in mind and the sick in body, whose nurse and teacher she had been, and of whom many had been brought back by her to the paths of religion and virtue. She turned towards a decrepit old man, who stood next the wall, leaning feebly on his stick—
"George!" she said, "who will make broth for you when I am gone?"
"Then turning to me, and pressing my hand between both hers, she said, "Am I really free?"
"Yes, Lidivine."
"And I may go with you to visit the kind advocate who often pleads the cause of my prisoners?"
"Certainly."
"And you will take me to the house of our sick people's physician?"
"Yes, Lidivine; and to the church which is about to be re-opened. For now we are once more under a government which will allow us liberty to worship God according to our conscience."
"Thanks to his holy name! If I were sure of not being an incumbrance in the prison—" The guoler's wife threw her arms around the old woman, and embraced her. "Then you will not send me away?" continued Lidivine, smiling, and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Come, friends," she said to the prisoners, "the bell has rung, 'tis time to go in; we shall meet again to-morrow. I am not going away. Where indeed," added she, "could I be more useful or more happy? I have no home in the world, no family, no friends. It is different with Pierre; he is young, industrious, patient, and, above all, pious. If the nation has turned once more to what is right, Pierre will prosper in it. Come to me, my child, that I may give thee my blessing before thou goest forth!"
Pierre had not yet spoken; he seemed plunged in a deep reverie. When his grandmother thus called him, he approached her, and said: "I must not go, my mother, and leave thee here. I lack both time and talent to acquire learning for a profession. My strength is too weak to engage in an active trade. Besides, have I not duties to fulfil here? Nicholas wants an assistant, and he knows that I never allow my compassion to interfere with the honest discharge of my office. I pray you, mother, do not ask me to go forth! A blessing will rest upon me while I remain here and minister to your wants, besides soothing also the sorrows of others."
Nicholas took his hand, squeezed it with an iron gripe, and said in his harshest voice: "Do then stay with us!" I looked at the old turnkey's eyes as he spoke: gruff as was his tone, you might have thought, judging from the water that flowed from them, that the whole contents of his snuff-box had flown into them.
I afterwards learned that Lidivine survived her young companion, Pierre. Both, I was told, finished their lives in the service of the prisoners, soothing many a child of sorrow, and binding up many a broken heart.