by JEFFREY ST. CLAIR
Perhaps even the Sun King himself appreciated the irony of his
secret tribunals being conducted in a court where daylight was not
permitted to penetrate. The sinister proceedings of the Chambre Ardente
took place in a room blanketed by thick black curtains in the depths of
the old Paris Arsenal a few blocks from the Bastille.
The so-called Burning Chamber, so-named for the flaming torches that
lined the walls and its victims who would later be set afire at the
stake, originated in 1535 under Francis I as an inquisitional court for
the prosecution of heretics. But the tribunal really kicked into lethal
gear during the reign of Frances’ demented son, Henry II.
Henry was one of the most depraved figures in an era known for its
regal brutality. He was, by all accounts, an insipid man, of limited
intellect and charm, a bigot and sexual sadist, who was driven by a
rabid hatred of the French Calvinists known as the Huguenots. Henry
viewed the Huguenots as a “foreign contagion” infecting the homeland,
and issued a series of increasingly severe Edicts calling on the
Parliament of Paris to enact laws that would extinguish the Protestant
threat. When the Parliament refused to act, Henry, enraged, moved on his
own authority, using the Chambre Ardente as his covert prosecutorial
instrument.
Before the sequestered judges of the secret court, all suspects were
presumed guilty, awaiting only sentencing. Calvinist books and Bibles
were proscribed. Thousands were cast into dungeons, their property
seized as property of the king, their bodies subjected to vile tortures:
gouged eyes, cropped ears, tongues extracted by glowing pliers—the
usual menu of medieval atrocities. The condemned were carted away by the
hundreds to the Place Maubert and set ablaze for the edification of the
public.
In 1559, Henry’s grim tenure as king came to a fortuitously abrupt
end at the point of Gabriel Montgomery’s lance on the jousting field at
Place de Vosges. Montgomery was the head of the King’s Scots Guard, a
kind of death squad geared toward tracking down and dispatching
suspected Protestants and Henry’s political opponents. After Henry died
in 1559, the Chambre Ardente was shuttered and Montgomery, now a pariah
in France, fled to England and converted to Protestantism.
For 115 years, the doors of the black-curtained court in the Arensal
remained sealed, until the Le Roi du Soleil ordered the doors opened,
the terrible tables of judgment dusted off and oiled, and his own
private prosecutor installed, the indefatigable Nicolas de La Reynie,
the inspector Jauvert of his time.
Under Louis XIV’s reign, the Chambre Ardente was retooled a kind of
personal inquisitional court, where scores were settled, detentions
ordered, suspects interrogated and tortured, executions decreed. Between
1675 and 1682, more than 210 sessions of the black court were convened.
Hundreds of arrest warrants and seizure writs were executed. All in
secret, immune from the unpredictable pronouncements of juries and
jurists. The Chambre Ardente was a place where all verdicts were
pre-ordained, with no right to appeal.
Confessions, of course, are always desirable, especially by despots,
and as a means of encouragement the so-called water-cure (and early
predecessor of water-boarding) was often deployed by agents of the dark
court. In one notorious case, a certain Madame de Brinvilliers was force
fed sixteen pints of water, until she admitted her guilt. She was
subsequently beheaded, her corpse torched at the stake.
The most infamous proceedings of the dark court during this period
involved what is known as the Affair of the Poisons, a sex-and-murder
driven scandal involving members of the aristocracy and Parisian elites
very close to the King himself. To keep, from implicating Versailles,
Louis instructed the Chambre Ardente to institute secret round-up of
problematic individuals, including political and sexual rivals,
abortionists, homosexuals, and manufacturers of what was called the
inheritance drugs (ie, poison). At least thirty-six people were
executed. Even the dramatist Racine narrowly escaped being shackled in
the dungeon of the Bastille. The strange saga is given a vivid narration
in Nancy Mitford’s delightful “
The Sun King,” recently brought back into print by NYRB Press.
Some of the objects Louis’ vengeance proved too sensitive even to be
hauled before the Chambre Attendre. In these cases, the King used an
even more malign method of disposing of his rivals, enemies and
political opponents, the
Lettre de Cachet. By writ of the King,
individuals could be arrested, exiled and secretly jailed without any
trial at all. This was an early form of rendition that wasn’t abolished
until after the French Revolution.
More than any other autocratic European ruler since Caesar Augustus,
Louis put the total into totalitarian, a divinely-infused absolutism
that is crystallized in his infamous quip “L’etat c’est moi.” In other
words, whatever the King did was legal by definition. Yet, Louis
Quatorze was widely regarded as a benign dictator, even by fierce
critics of the Ancien Regime, including Voltaire himself.
Now we have our very own Sun King, a man almost universally praised
for his high-learning and enlightened moral conscience. And, like the
Bourbon monarch, Barack Obama too has his own dark court, an
extrajudicial panel that operates in secret, authorizes domestic spying,
wiretaps, detentions, renditions and even summary executions by drone
strike.
Obama’s FISA tribunals are a Constitution-free zone. Its proceedings
are shielded from public light by executive decree. Here, as in the
ancient Chambre Arendte, all suspects are presumed guilty and the agents
of the state are considered omniscient and omnipotent. Last year alone,
the FISA courts considered 1,800 requests for surveillance on American
citizens. Not one request was denied.
The Left remains nearly inert to the steady accretion of executive
powers and the stunning abridgement of fundamental civil liberties. The
basic structures of our democracy are being occluded by the creeping
shadow of a benign autocrat.
The Republic descends into darkness.
JEFFREY ST. CLAIR is the editor of CounterPunch and the author of Been Brown So Long It Looked Like Green to Me: the Politics of Nature, Grand Theft Pentagon and Born Under a Bad Sky. His latest book is Hopeless: Barack Obama and the Politics of Illusion. He can be reached at: sitka@comcast.net.
This essay originally appeared in the July issue of CounterPunch magazine.