was brought before the Convention and again made a stirring defence, accusing his gaolers of violating the constitution ‘because the body politic is oppressed when any citizen is oppressed’. He complained that he had been accused of seeking to flee the country, when he had neither horses nor a carriage and could not move two leagues out of Paris without permission from the government. He accused the dreaded Public Safety Committee of tyranny, in disregarding his previous acquittal.
Miranda had asked his doctor to prepare a dose of poison so that he could cheat the guillotine, undoubtedly a wise precaution: compared to a single major prison in Paris before the Revolution, the Bastille, there were now twenty prisons, containing about 40,000 people; 7,000 had already been guillotined; Paris was in the grip of fear.
A club-like atmosphere pervaded La Force. Miranda beautifully caught the mood when he wrote that it was as though he were ‘making a long journey by boat, during which it was necessary to fill the tiresome emptiness of time with the search for useful knowledge without knowing if the journey would end in death at sea or happy arrival in port’. The Marquis du Châtelet became an inseparable companion; the two men talked at length of art, literature and travel; they played cards with packs from which, to their amusement, the court cards had been removed, and read Tacitus and Cicero. One day du Châtelet decided to swallow poison, leaving his few goods to Miranda and the other prisoners. The weeks passed slowly by.
In August Miranda appeared before the Revolution’s Special Criminal Tribunal for investigation. In September he went before the National Convention again, when he asked to be allowed to go into exile in order to pursue his cause against the Spanish government. The French could not make up their minds what to do about him, but they wanted him out of the way. Miranda’s frustration grew more desperate and bitter. He railed against the ‘infamous’ Robespierre, the ‘imposter’ Saint-Just, and against Danton, who had betrayed him. The police investigated the source of Miranda’s funds, but found no sign that theyhad been acquired illegally (his money came from his general’s pay, and rich patrons). The months continued to drift slowly by, and Miranda made new friends in gaol, including the celebrated antiquarian and savant Antoine-Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy.
In December 1794 Miranda loosed a formidable broadside against the Convention, denouncing Robespierre’s ‘execrable maxim that the individual’s interest must be sacrificed to the public interest’, an ‘infernal’ idea that had given tyrants from Tiberius to Philip II the justification for their misrule. His letter ended, with courageous dignity: ‘I do not ask for mercy from the Convention. I demand the most rigorous justice for myself and for those who have dared . . . to compromise the dignity of the French people and poison the national image.’ For a man under the shadow of revolutionary Terror and in gaol for more than a year, Miranda showed an admirably robust and indomitable spirit.
On 26 January 1795 Miranda was finally released from La Force, and promptly installed himself in a splendid
appartement
at Rue St-Florentin costing £1,400 a year – a staggering sum for those days. He was determined to make up for the deprivations of the past year and a half, of which sex – although he seems to have had access to some women in prison – was probably the most terrible. Women, the theatre and elegant parties were resumed with renewed vigour.
In prison he had met ‘Delfina’, the beautiful Marquise de Custine, whose husband, the famous general, was also in gaol. Miranda now embarked on a torrid affair with her – until he discovered she had also satisfied the lusts of Chateaubriand, Alexandre de Beauharnais, M. de Grouchy, Comte Louis de Ségur, Boissy d’Anglais and Dr Korev. Passionate and intelligent but
Miranda had asked his doctor to prepare a dose of poison so that he could cheat the guillotine, undoubtedly a wise precaution: compared to a single major prison in Paris before the Revolution, the Bastille, there were now twenty prisons, containing about 40,000 people; 7,000 had already been guillotined; Paris was in the grip of fear.
A club-like atmosphere pervaded La Force. Miranda beautifully caught the mood when he wrote that it was as though he were ‘making a long journey by boat, during which it was necessary to fill the tiresome emptiness of time with the search for useful knowledge without knowing if the journey would end in death at sea or happy arrival in port’. The Marquis du Châtelet became an inseparable companion; the two men talked at length of art, literature and travel; they played cards with packs from which, to their amusement, the court cards had been removed, and read Tacitus and Cicero. One day du Châtelet decided to swallow poison, leaving his few goods to Miranda and the other prisoners. The weeks passed slowly by.
In August Miranda appeared before the Revolution’s Special Criminal Tribunal for investigation. In September he went before the National Convention again, when he asked to be allowed to go into exile in order to pursue his cause against the Spanish government. The French could not make up their minds what to do about him, but they wanted him out of the way. Miranda’s frustration grew more desperate and bitter. He railed against the ‘infamous’ Robespierre, the ‘imposter’ Saint-Just, and against Danton, who had betrayed him. The police investigated the source of Miranda’s funds, but found no sign that theyhad been acquired illegally (his money came from his general’s pay, and rich patrons). The months continued to drift slowly by, and Miranda made new friends in gaol, including the celebrated antiquarian and savant Antoine-Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy.
In December 1794 Miranda loosed a formidable broadside against the Convention, denouncing Robespierre’s ‘execrable maxim that the individual’s interest must be sacrificed to the public interest’, an ‘infernal’ idea that had given tyrants from Tiberius to Philip II the justification for their misrule. His letter ended, with courageous dignity: ‘I do not ask for mercy from the Convention. I demand the most rigorous justice for myself and for those who have dared . . . to compromise the dignity of the French people and poison the national image.’ For a man under the shadow of revolutionary Terror and in gaol for more than a year, Miranda showed an admirably robust and indomitable spirit.
On 26 January 1795 Miranda was finally released from La Force, and promptly installed himself in a splendid
appartement
at Rue St-Florentin costing £1,400 a year – a staggering sum for those days. He was determined to make up for the deprivations of the past year and a half, of which sex – although he seems to have had access to some women in prison – was probably the most terrible. Women, the theatre and elegant parties were resumed with renewed vigour.
In prison he had met ‘Delfina’, the beautiful Marquise de Custine, whose husband, the famous general, was also in gaol. Miranda now embarked on a torrid affair with her – until he discovered she had also satisfied the lusts of Chateaubriand, Alexandre de Beauharnais, M. de Grouchy, Comte Louis de Ségur, Boissy d’Anglais and Dr Korev. Passionate and intelligent but
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