Intrigued for reasons I cannot explain, I pulled it off the shelf, checked the index for the word Picpus -- the cemetery in the 12th arrondissement where she and her husband are buried, near the mass graves of more than 1,300 people who were guillotined nearby, including most of the members of her family. I was rewarded with the following tale of sorrow, anguish and the nobility of human nature.
It had always been a great grief and sorrow to the pious daughters that they should not have even the poor consolation of praying beside the graves of those dearly loved, who had been, as described by Mlle. Paris, buried in one undistinguishable mass, covered with quicklime, in the brutal fashion inaugurated at the burial of the unfortunate sovereigns Louis and Marie Antoinette. She finally found that her mother and sister slept in the little cemetery of the Picpus, belonging to the convent of the same name. The origin of this cemetery of Picpus is of great antiquity and curious interest. Far back in the fifteenth century the people of a part of France, in particular, of Paris, were visited by an irritating affliction. Its exact cause not being known to the unskilled chirurgeons of the day, the epidemic ran on, unchecked. It was characterized by numerous, not over-large, swellings on all arts of the body, in appearance having the effect of monster flea-bites, with the accompanying irritation and itching of the skin. Finally, a monk, whose name has been lost, affected so many cures that he established a little monastery, at a village, or rather, straggling collection of houses, near Paris, on the road to Vincennes, where, with a few brethren of his order, he continued to cure those who flocked to him. These monks became known as the Pique Puces (flea-bites), from their treatment of those irritating swellings, so similar to the bites of that bloodthirsty insect, which they cured in a simple manner, by opening the sores, expressing the virus, bathing the wounds, and allowing Dame Nature to pursue her healing way unhindered. The order became a flourishing one, always being known as the Pique Puces, and giving its name to the village, now swallowed by ever-growing Paris.
The vicissitudes of this order were many, and the monastery finally became the property of the Canonesses of Saint Augustine, to whom it belonged at the outbreak of the Revolution. After the law abolishing all religious orders, the convent with its quaint cemetery, its luxurious gardens and fruit trees, was abandoned, serving as a sleeping place for those waifs who knew not form day to day what the next hour might bring forth. Its gnarled trees, overhanging the grim walls, tempted young Jean and Pierre to put into effect the law which ruled France at the moment: that of making one's neighbor's worldly goods one's own. Unchecked by rebuke, they became bolder, and not even the ghostly terrors of the deserted graveyard kept the ragged little wretches from satisfying their appetites on the fruits which had been the bonne bouches of the absent nuns.
At last the brief of the inhabitants of the rue Saint Honoré has been granted. The day before yesterday, as I was going to bed, I was called to the Palais de Justice, where Royer, the substitute, ordered me to clear the Place de la Révolution of the scaffold, and take it to the Place de la Bastille. The carpenters worked all night. The public of this quartier had no liking for executions, for as soon as we appeared in the rue St. Antoine, with three carts full, we were hissed, and otherwise ill received. The inhabitants of the quartier St. Antoine are not so timid as those of the Place de la Révolution, and they made no secret of their disgust; when the execution took place almost everybody had gone away. The Committee have determined not to renew the experiment, and under the pretence that the Place de la Bastille is too good for aristocratic blood, they have directed the scaffold to be transferred to the Place du Trone. So we passed another sleepless night. We are now to send the corpses to the St. Marguerite cemetery." This new arrangement did not prove satisfactory – the place of putting the unfortunate dead in the cemetery of St. Marguerite, for again less than a fortnight after, Sanson alludes to the matter.
"Messidor 1: The dead are beginning to frighten the living. The inhabitants of the Montreuil section, where we now send the dead bodies, have complained. They argue that the stench is horrible, and that unless the small cemetery of St. Marguerite isw closed, serious consequences cannot but ensue. After much hesitation, the Committee has selected a new place for the burial of the executed. This is the garden of the old convent of Picpus. The spot seems to be ill chosen; the soil is composed of pure clay, and it cannot absorb what is deposited in it." So runs the history of the cemetery of Picpus, where so many noble dead sleep in silent harmony with those who were of the byways.
The enclosure, or field, was the property of the Princess of Hohenzollern, whose brother, the Prince of Salm-Kyrbourg, beheaded in the Terror, was buried there. His property, among which was the hotel (now rebuilt) belonging to the Legion d'Honneur, on the Quai d'Orsay, was confiscated, according to the practice of the day, being drawn in the National Lottery by a coiffeur. The princess refused the request of Mmes. De Lafayette and de Montagu, to "consecrate the ground to the common veneration of the many families whose members lay sleeping there." "She did not wish to relinquish her rights." There was, however, a chapel, and some fields adjoining, and these the sisters, with the many others interested, bought. It was leased to an order of Bernardine nuns, who had dedicated themselves to the perpetual adoration of the Holy Sacrament, their order, founded in 1425, being the second only to the Carmelites in its dreadful severity and rigorous austerities. So, at last, the dead slept in consecrated ground. Mme de Lafayette passed many hours in the little chapel, where the names of the victims, inscribed on the books of the Conciergerie, weeping, and praying for the souls of those who had gone without hesitation to eternity. This interesting spot, with its harrowing memories, is situated near the old mur d'octroi, between the Barrière du Trone and the Barrière Saint Mandé – now absorbed in the busy faubourg of St. Antoine, and has – or had -- a boarding school attached to it, where the nuns daily teach. It is still known as the cemetery of Picpus. At her request, Mme de Lafayette was buried there – the spot for her grave chosen by Mme de Montagu – though it is usually to the tomb of her gallant husband that the steps of the pilgrim and sightseer wend their way.
"At last the brief of the inhabitants of the rue Saint Honoré has been granted. The day before yesterday, as I was going to bed, I was called to the Palais de Justice, where Royer, the substitute, ordered me to clear the Place de la Révolution of the scaffold, and take it to the Place de la Bastille. The carpenters worked all night. The public of this quartier had no liking for executions, for as soon as we appeared in the rue St. Antoine, with three carts full, we were hissed, and otherwise ill received. The inhabitants of the quartier St. Antoine are not so timid as those of the Place de la Révolution, and they made no secret of their disgust; when the execution took place almost everybody had gone away. The Committee have determined not to renew the experiment, and under the pretence that the Place de la Bastille is too good for aristocratic blood, they have directed the scaffold to be transferred to the Place du Trone. So we passed another sleepless night. We are now to send the corpses to the St. Marguerite cemetery." This new arrangement did not prove satisfactory – the place of putting the unfortunate dead in the cemetery of St. Marguerite, for again less than a fortnight after, Sanson alludes to the matter.
Marie, Philippe and I had originally scheduled to meet in Pere Lachaise Saturday afternoon to begin taping our podcasts in division 8, 9 and 10.
Well I was just about to board the Metro when Marie called and said there had been a change of plans. It seems that she and Philippe had read in the local weekly Pariscope,(a listing events throughout Paris) that there would be a special guided tour of the rarely opened crypts beneath Les Invalides (where Napoleon I is buried). Marie said they had been waiting for years for this opportunity and would I care to join them about 2 pm? You bet!
So I retraced my steps to the apartment, hung out for a while, called Susie to see how she was doing ("Fine") and headed off towards Les Invalides (line 10 from Jussieu to the no. 13 at duroc and then off at Invalides. Simple.).
I told Marie and Philippe that I would head home and after saying au revoir off I went. A few minutes later, just as I left the main entrance to the Invalides I heard someone calling out my name and I turned around to see the two of them chasing after me. "So Steve do you want to go to Picpus cemetery?" Whoa! Yeah! The cemetery is rarely open and very hard to find so I jumped at the chance, you bet.
"Picpus cemetery", you ask? Besides the funny name what's the deal here? Well several things actually.
The second part is the little cemetery next to the mass graves, which holds the remains of some of France's most well known families. Moreover, it is also the resting place of the Marquis de Lafayette. Yes, that Lafayette: "Lafayette we are here", Lafayette, Indiana, ,Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, Fayetteville, North Carolina and on and on. I mean the man was made an honorary US citizen in 2002.
So the three of us headed for the Metro line 13 got off at the Opera stop, picked up the RER to Place de la Nation where Philippe showed me the spot where the guillotine had been set up. We then pent 15 minutes trying to find our way out of this enormous Place. At last we located the right "spoke" of the hub and soon found the little cemetery, down a small side street away (35 rue de Picpus).
After paying our fee (2 euros and change each) to the fellow at the "conservation" building he showed us to the gate, which he unlocked and let us in to wander around ourselves.
The first thing that strikes you as you enter is a long rectangular green space running deep into the block itself.
At the far side of that is the original door (some discussion here between Marie and Philippe about this), or at least the original entrance used by the carts which brought the headless bodies from the Place to the mass graves here; several dozen a day in fact. Nasty business.
There is also a small segment of the original wooden palisade that once surrounded the gravesites.
Off to the right, is the small cemetery itself, behind which is a stone wall and a locked gate, and at the far back are the two mass graves. The little cemetery is where you can find Lafayette's grave, next to the entrance to the mass grave section, and is decorated with various markers from the United States' organizations such as the Daughters of the American Revolution.
There is also a plaque memorializing the 16 Carmelite nuns who were executed on July 24, 1794. Ranging in age from 29 to78 they went to the scaffold singing hymns as a choir, until one-by-one the last nun, still singing was executed. They were beatified in 1906.
There are also recent memorials as well. One just has to prove that a member of their family was one of the 1,306 who were originally buried in the mass graves.
From the little cemetery we walked back toward the entrance and into the small chapel near the main gate.
The interior was nearly dark except for the far back left wall of the transept which was lit up so one could read the enormous plaque listing some of all the names of those 1,306 who were executed that summer. Reading the plaques on the walls – there was another one on the opposite transept wall -- which seem to go all the way to the ceiling, and arranged by date of execution, one can't help but feel the tragic, stupid absurdity of what happened just a few hundred meters away more than two centuries ago. I used to think of the Terror as striking mainly at the nobility – which it did certainly – but more than half of the names on these lists were simple commoners like Marie Bouchard, age 18, "domestique"or Jean Baptiste Marino, age 37, porcelain painter or Raymond Borie, age 19, shoemaker. Horrible.
We left the chapel and walked out into a light drizzle, said au revoir (again) and plan to meet up the next weekend at Pere Lachaise.