Millionaire - Janet Gleeson [38]
Then Noailles instigated his most drastic remedy yet. In March 1716, a so-called Chamber of Justice was charged to investigate and call to account the financiers, tax collectors, and other officials who, it was felt, had profited unlawfully and on a vast scale from France’s economic distress. To assist the courts in their quest, people were tempted to inform with the bait of a fifth of any recovered money or property. Treachery ensued on an unparalleled scale. Disgruntled servants betrayed their employers, wives and mistresses whispered of their lovers’ financial misdemeanors, children cited their parents’ transgressions, and fearful of being reported, anyone who had coins hoarded them, unwittingly worsening the monetary shortage. People who panicked and tried to flee the country found that innkeepers and postmasters had been ordered to refuse horses to anyone they suspected of evading justice. Some turned back, admitted their crime, and relinquished properties or large sums of money to avoid the rack or the pillory. Others committed suicide rather than subject themselves to the horrors of investigation.
The Chamber of Justice was installed, somewhat inappropriately, in the convent of the Grands Augustins, and a sinister torture chamber was set up next door. Many successfully bribed their way out of trouble, some courtiers and the regent’s mistress, La Parabère, profiting vastly as a consequence. One tax collector, fined 12 million livres, was approached by a courtier and offered a reduction if he was paid a douceur of 100,000 livres. “You are too late, my friend,” the financier is said to have responded. “I have already made a deal with your wife for fifty thousand.”
For the unfortunates who could not escape, the procedure often appeared to have been as terrifying as feared. The financier Samuel Bernard, one of Law’s most vociferous opponents, offered some 6 million livres but was still sentenced to death. The profiteers La Normande and Monsieur Gruet were heavily fined, and sentenced to “make amends” by parading in front of Notre Dame and Les Halles, La Normande wearing a shirt and a placard reading “voleur du peuple” (fraudster of the public), before being condemned to spend the rest of their lives on the galleys. La Normande was eventually spared the final punishment, and most reports were merely propaganda exercises to pin the blame on the unpopular financiers, many of whom acted only as middlemen for the court elite. Nevertheless, fear of the Chamber of Justice was all too real.
Among the frightening panoply of French punishments—being broken on the wheel, hanged, racked, whipped, and pilloried—life on the galleys was among the most horrific. The condemned were chained, naked to the waist, in rows of half a dozen at each oar, while their supervisors strode on platforms above and whipped them to make them row harder for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. Hundreds died in excruciating agony at the oar, to be flung overboard like so much rotten meat. Like many forms of punishment, the galleys were regarded as an entertaining tourist attraction: the slaves were made to dance, sing, and row for the delectation of the crowd. The diarist John Evelyn was among the travelers who saw them in the seventeenth century. He recorded, “Their rising forwards and falling back at their oars, is a miserable spectacle, and the noise of their chains with the roaring