I started this on Barricade Day '07 and it has been rotting on my hard drive ever since. It doesn't have a message or any real point, but I didn't want to see the entire summer slip by without me posting a single thing. It certainly didn't go where I expected, but such is life. If nothing else, it proves I'm not dead.
The title, as you will see, comes from Cesare Beccaria's On Crimes and Punishments
The description of the prison is probably laughably inaccurate, but I can't be bothered to care.
The (distressingly few) characters you recognize from Hugo belong to him. The nameless OC and the stock prison personnel are obviously mine. Charles Jeanne belongs to history, or at least to his equally dead montagnard fanboys.
The guards in this part of the prison came and went like clockwork. Their voices were infrequent and sullen. Therefore, a new voice, when it sounded through the darkness, with its lighter step and unexpected hours, drew the prisoner's attention. From his position huddled in the corner of the dark cell, he scuttled on hands and knees over to the opposite wall. Through the bars, he could see a lantern bobbing up and down in the dimly-lit hallway, leading three people coming in his direction.
"– seems rather inhumane, wouldn't you say?" questioned the newcomer. "What kinds of prisoners are detained down here, that they deserve this kind of treatment?" The prisoner felt a jolt of surprise to hear the rarely-seen prison warden respond.
"These are the men who have committed especially dangerous or violent crimes or have shown themselves to be a threat to other inmates. It may seem a bit…degrading to you, but it really is for the best of everyone that they are isolated."
"I see." The three men stopped approximately four cells away from where the prisoner was detained. He pressed a grime-covered cheek against equally filthy bars in an attempt to continue observing them. "May I perhaps speak to one of them?"
"Monsieur, I'm afraid that that would be useless. Most of them were half-mad already when they came. They become sullen and withdrawn. The subhuman nature that led them to crime is exposed over time."
"I will be the judge of that." The prisoner felt a thrill of excitement and bitter longing as his ears detected the unmistakable sound of a pen scratching on paper. How he longed to write, to create! He pressed harder against the bars, twisting his head, desperately trying to see what was happening. The stranger, taking notes against a wall, was peering into a cell while the silent guard tried to illuminate its contents with the light. "Pardon me, in there. I would like to talk to you. Would you tell me your name?"
There were a few moments of silence. The prisoner strained his ears and thought he could detect a barely audible grunting. "I'm sorry, but could you repeat that?" Still silence.
"Say something, you halfwit!" growled the guard, rattling the bars. The unseen man in the cell gave a long screech of terror. This upset some of the other men, and the prisoner could hear frantic rustling in the cell beside him. Even after the inmate under scrutiny fell silent, his cries echoed hauntingly along the long stone corridor.
"Thank you, gentlemen," the stranger stated coldly. "I think I have everything I need to know. You can expect to receive an official report soon. Now, if you will please escort me back upstairs." The prisoner felt a rush of panic.
"Wait!" he tried to call, but his voice, which had once been able to incite a crowd to rebellion, was hoarse from disuse and came out as a feeble croak. "Wait!" He tried again. "You are a reformer! So am I. Please, come speak to me!" The receding footfalls halted.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, monsieur. As you have seen, our inmates often make senseless noises."
"Please!" The prisoner wondered if the stranger would be able to understand him even if he did return. 'It is useless to make a public example of the author of a crime hid in darkness...Can pain, which is a sensation, have any connection with a moral sentiment, a matter of opinion?' Beccaria called for an end to torture, yet torture is still used! Why?"
"Bring me back. I demand to speak with whoever is saying that." The three men returned and stopped in front of the prisoner's cell. "Unlock the door. I wish to see what these living conditions are actually like." The prisoner was ashamed of the way he instinctually flinched and flung himself backwards at the sound of the key turning in the lock. The torchlight blinded his eyes that were so used to the darkness. He could not see the man's face, but his tone was reassuring.
"You were quoting Beccaria, no? What are you doing here?"
"Yes, and I could recite whole volumes at you. I am a prisoner."
"As I see. But for what offence are you being detained?"
"What offence? I do not see it as an offence. I worked for reform, like you, evidently. Just a bit more…emphatically." A dry, harsh laugh, followed by violent coughing that left the prisoner's hand wet and dark. As the stranger waited for the hacking to subside, the prisoner distantly wondered what expression the man's face held. Pity? Disgust?
The stranger continued as if nothing had happened. "Meaning?"
"Tell me, what is the date?"
"August 17, 1838."
"So long…do you remember the funeral of General Lamarque. June 5, 1832."
"I…yes. I do. And there were riots that followed it."
"Not riots, but insurrections. I was the leader of one of the barricades. I am guilty of the crime of progress."
"I…see. I'm sorry."
"I am not. I am only sorry that I did not die when I should have, and that the king denied me the dignity of a – a –" the prisoner dissolved into more coughing. "– a clean execution."
"Disgraceful." A long pause. "Why did you mention Beccaria?"
The prisoner's eyes widened, and just as suddenly, his expression closed. "To get your attention. It worked."
"And that's all?"
"…all that matters, now, for me." A weak coughing. "You seem to have access here. Look deep enough, and you'll find your answers."
"I'm so sorry," the stranger whispered, feeling ill. His pen and paper hung forgotten by his side.
The prisoner jerked slightly, then continued as though he had not heard. "So tell me, is the Pear-headed still clinging to the throne?"
"…yes, and it would be wise for you to show a bit more respect for the King of the French. I may be reform-minded, and France still has a long way to go, but I am still a civil servant and, as such, I –"
"Respect!" the prisoner managed to gasp out between bloody coughs. "Just look at…how can…" He lay panting on the ground for a few long moments before continuing. Somewhere, another prisoner had started a thin, high keening. "I don't care if your 'King of the French' has managed to raise the bourgeoisie to the heights of Mount Olympus while I've been locked away here; the…conditions…I have experienced might as well be the work of some despot from the Dark Ages." His eyes were blazing in the lantern's feeble light, but he had not exercised his voice so in perhaps years, and he collapsed into a bout hacking that violently shook his too-thin frame.
"By God," the stranger murmured in horror, "just like Jeanne last year." He turned to the guard and warden who were still both waiting warily behind him. "Some water, for the love of God! How can you just stand there? Another human being! Disgraceful!" He strode into the cell and, as he fell to his knees beside the shaking prisoner, he noticed that the man's long, matted hair might have, in another life, been golden. Suddenly, something clicked in his head. "Wait…Charles Jeanne…you stood trial at the same time as him, didn't you? Unless he was involved the Transnonain affair…?"
"Yes," the warden suddenly broke in. "He was certainly part of the Transnonain mobs. I remember it clearly."
"No. Jeanne was also…Lamarque. A brave man," the prisoner smiled wanly, not uncovering his teeth.
"Water!" the civil servant snarled back at the warden before addressing the prisoner. "Brave, indeed. It's probably a good thing for the government that it put the two of you in different prisons," the official tried to return the smile. "Did you know that, as soon as Jeanne got his bearings, he tried to organize protests against the state of the prison? For a while, some people were joking that the next French Republic was going to be born in the Bicêtre. After all, the first one had its genesis in the Bastille."
"No. The future must be created by good, pure, honest men. The Republic will never be the child of madmen and hardened crimin – God!" and he was lost once again in a fit of coughing.
Ignoring the blood and filth on the cell and its inhabitant, the stranger did his best to prop up the prisoner's head with his arms. They sat like that until the guard returned with a large clay mug of water. He poured it down the other man's throat as best he could, given the unwieldy container and the prisoner's continued coughing.
When the prisoner at last recovered, he whispered hoarsely, "You said something…'just like Jeanne.' What happened to him?"
"Consumption. I'm sorry."
"Sorrier than most, I suppose. Thank you."
"I…no." The stranger took in the huddled body before himself, trying to remember who the prisoner was. Echoes of fiery speeches and an enraptured press flashed across his mind: the double sensation of St. Merry and Chanvrerie, of the workingman and the rich student, of Jeanne and…the other. "What's your name? I don't seem to remember."
"I…am dying. I will die as nameless…forgotten…as (ah! my statistics are old) countless unfortunates will die of hunger and disease on the streets of this city. Unless your king has made it so this is the only corner of hell left in Paris?"
The reformer shook his head sadly.
"Then it is only…just."
He bent near the prisoner's ear, whispering so that the warden would not hear too much. "What can I do to help you?"
"Nothing. I have been lost for the last six years. It has only…taken time. Too much time. Reform, when against an evil as great as monarchy, is too little, too slow. Especially for me, now. Water, please." He gulped down the rest of the mug's contents and continued almost feverishly, "if the situation out there is at all as it was before, you have no choice but to revolt if you truly desire progress. If I could convince even such a gentle soul as Prouvaire (ah, Jehan!) of the fact, then surely it must be true. While you council patience and bide your time with your liberal reforms, men…women…children…innocents…dying (oh God, dying!)…"
"I'll call a doctor. There's nothing that can be done to save you, but if we can bring your story to the light, it may cause a scandal. If nothing else, by demonstrating the sad condition of our prisons, you will help promote the case for reform. Do you still wish to go down fighting?"
"No. Too…tired. Let me die in peace."
"But surely there must be something I can do," the man pressed.
"Help others. I have never cared much for myself."
"That's not enough. I will help you, somehow. I swear it."
The former revolutionary nodded solemnly as the reformer gently set him back down on the ground. The stranger gave him a final compassionate glance before exiting the cell. Although the warden shut the cell door behind the visitor with a crash that could have stopped the soul of a man accustomed to the light, the prisoner hardly noticed the sound. He did not know whether or not he lost consciousness as the lantern light disappeared.
Four days later, a guard unlocked the door to the prisoner's cell and set down in addition to the standard ration of food a small package, an extra serving of water, and a lantern. "You have twenty minutes with the light," the man grunted as he locked the cell again.
The prisoner tore at the package with clumsy, shaking hands. It contained a note, a razor, and a small bottle. What does one say to a dying man? He squinted at the writing, trying to force his eyes to remember how to process text.
As you believe that the taking of life can be an ultimately humanitarian act, perhaps you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive that this is the only kind of help that I could sent you in time. The bottle, should you choose to use it, contains a dose of cyanide that should plunge you into unconsciousness and then kill you in a matter of minutes, perhaps less. I do not know if you will choose to use any of the resources I sent you, but if nothing else I wanted to give you a final liberty: the power to control your own death.
Only you can know what wrongs have been committed against you, but I beg you not to spoil your name with meaningless revenge by using the razor to hurt one of the guards. Such an action would help no one, and would, I think, be below you. I also request that you burn this letter in the lantern when you have finished with it.
Finally, I found your name by searching through old papers. I will not defile it by dragging it through the muck of this prison, but rest knowing that it will be cherished and passed down through all men who would dedicate themselves to a brighter future. I cannot promise you revolution, but I swear that I will never stop working.
Godspeed.
The prisoner carefully read the letter three times before tenderly feeding it to the flame in the lantern. He stared at the two "resources" in front of him. The razor: pain, horror, visible protest, and the blood that should have been shed years ago. The poison: a swift, silent end. Which was the path that the man who had fearlessly faced down a firing squad all those years ago deserved? Which was the coward's escape? Had Jeanne been faced with a similar decision, and how did he respond?
He summoned up the lively chorus of voices that had kept him company in the darkness. What would you have me do?
-The poison, a first set of voices urged. Make it a swift, clean end.
-With the cyanide, there will be no chance of error. There is no need to prolong your suffering. What knowledge do you have of veins and arteries?
-Do not risk exposing your friend by making a scene with the blade.
-One swallow, and you can finally come join us. We have missed you, brother.
He chuckled to himself as a second faction inevitably arose within his head.
-Phaw! Use the blade! Let the bastards know that you were free of them in the end!
-Imagine how good it will feel to at last let your blood spill as ours did.
-You did not want to go quietly before; why would you desire to now?
-A compromise! A compromise! a gruff, cynical voice shouted. Poison the blade! Make them all happy, and satisfy none! Dead is dead is dead. What difference does it make how you arrive there?
-Patience, a woman's voice added to the growing din. Suicide is a sin. The end is near enough. Why stain your soul even further?
Silence! he commanded, and the voices immediately quieted. He could feel them watching, waiting.
He experimentally held the razor to his skeletal wrist, then sloshed the little bottle about next to his ear as he considered his options. The blade, the poison, the consumption. The blade, the poison, the consumption. The blade…
Suddenly, he laughed in exaltation. It made no real difference which way he died, but for the first time in years, he was faced with a real decision. He was thinking, feeling, and there was (miracle of miracles) a light all of his own inside the cell! He was living again, even if that life was bought with his death. The blade, the poison, the consumption. How exhilarating! Three paths, each so different, each entirely under his control! Perhaps his visitor had possessed a more penetrating mind than he had initially thought; did the stranger know the true significance of the gifts he had smuggled into the prison? Blade, poison, consumption, faster and faster, flying before his eyes, until…
The guard's returning footsteps sounded down the corridor, and he was forced to stuff the two forbidden objects down the front of his drab prison garb. Cross-legged, he paid no attention to man taking back the lantern, staring almost meditatively at the flame as it seemingly of its own volition rose into the air, flickered, spun about, and then floated away from him and vanished from sight.
The blade, the poison, the consumption… Carefully retrieving the visitor's gifts…
He sat in the darkness facing the cell door, the poison in his left hand and the razor in his right, and, feeling a bubble of blood rising in his throat, he smiled.
Sooo…which option would your figment choose? Your answer probably says something significant about your personality and worldview, but heaven help me if I know what it is.
See, I'm encouraging you to think! It's not that I'm not just too lazy to decide for myself…
Reviews, as I'm sure you know, are highly satisfying things.