University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It often happens that a misfortune falls upon us
precisely at the time when we are least able to bear it.
This was now the case with Claude. He had not
overdrawn his salary at any former time, nor had he
ever been in debt. But Rossi had been a considerable
tax upon him. The £100 to Mrs. Denham had
taken all his means. He was naturally careless of
money, and he now found, with alarm and horror, that
his expenses amounted to considerably more than he
had the power to pay. He would be unable even to
discharge his hotel bill. He owed about £30 besides
the £38 to the London banker, and a small protested
draught. The note of Carolan now startled him. It
now wore a different aspect, but it was still as full of
mystery as of perplexity. It was a demand of payment
of the £50, couched in terms intentionally insulting,
and implying a suspicion that it might not be liquidated.
With all his fancied self-discipline, his blood
boiled at the idea of an insult; but one thus deliberately
preferred by a man to whom he owed money
he could not pay, had a character of its own not at all
agreeable. He had promised Carolan at their last interview

to settle it at once. He had thus far neglected
doing so, in consequence of the whirl of affairs
in which he had been involved.

Perhaps of all the evils which can befall a man, poverty,
if not the very worst, is, as society is constructed,
the most difficult to endure with cheerfulness, and
the most full of bitter humiliations and pains. Sickness
has its periods of convalescence, and even guilt
of repentance and reformation. For the loss of friends
time affords relief, and religion and philosophy open
consolation. But poverty is unremitting misery, perplexity,
restlessness, and shame. It is the vulture of
Prometheus. It is the rock of Sisyphus. It throws
over the universal world an aspect which only the poor
can see and know. The woes of life become more
terrible, because they fall unalleviated upon the heart;
and its pleasures sicken even more than its woes as
they are beheld by those who cannot enjoy them.
The poor man in society is almost a felon. The
cold openly sneer, and the arrogant insult with impunity.
The very earth joins his enemies, and spreads
verdant glades and tempting woods where his foot
may never tread. The very sky, with a human malice,
when his fellow-beings have turned him beneath
its dome, bites him with bitter winds and drenches
him with pitiless tempests. He almost ceases to be a
man, and yet he is lower than the brute; for they are
clothed and fed, and have their dens; but the penniless
wanderer, turned with suspicion from the gate of the
noble or the thatched roof of the poor, is helplessly
adrift amid more dangers and pains than befall any
other creature.

In an instant—from his easy station—when, self-dependent,
he could smile at Elkington, and turn his back
upon Carolan and the world—the proud and haughty
Wyndham was reduced to utter and hopeless destitution.
He was literally beggared. He was worse than
beggared. He was in debt, and he saw no means of
extricating himself. One of his debts, too, was to a

man who hated and despised him, and who had shown
himself capable of insulting the more openly as he
found his victim the more defenceless. This was a
position which startled him with peculiar horror.
What was he to do? How was he to pay the liabilities
he had contracted? How was he to leave Berlin?
Where was he to go? In what way was he
hereafter to maintain himself? These questions pressed
themselves upon his mind with a fierce importunity,
resembling nothing which he had ever before experienced,
and producing the strangest effect upon his
thoughts and feelings.

“Well,” said he, pacing his room to and fro slowly,
“I am then a beggar. I am a debtor. From what
cruel hand can this new blow proceed? What can it
mean? Can I live? How? With what hope of happiness
or honour? Life to me was already deprived
of nearly every charm! What will it now become?
Had I not better have fallen beneath the aim of Elkington?
Had I not better, as a Roman would, leave
voluntarily the earth, where I seem to have no more a
right to dwell?”

But these thoughts soon gave way to others calmer
and more sensible.

“I am in the hands of Him who can lift up and put
down at pleasure. Were suicide even right in itself,
it would not be so in me. I am a debtor. I would
rest in my grave without wronging any one of a shilling.
I am young, strong, and healthy. I will not be
idle. I will seek some occupation, I do not care how
toilsome or mean. The world? I have already shown
that, while I respect its honest opinions, I despise its
prejudices. Its scorn and hisses are nothing to me
when I do not deserve them. I will descend into a
lower class of life, as the taunting Carolan advised me.
I will labour, if it is at the plough. I will do anything
rather than live dependant, idle, or in debt.”

Nervous and agitated by this formidable prospect,
he continued walking to and fro, endeavouring to calm

the tumult of his mind, and decide instantly upon some
future line of conduct. Many were the singular ideas
which occurred to him. He was now unable to escape
from the assassin who pursued him so mysteriously.
Mrs. Denham would find the annuity he had
settled upon her stopped. He must write to her immediately.
What would Carolan say when he found
he had broken his promise to deposite the money?
What would the banker say on receiving news of his
protested bill? What would the few who still defended
him in the society where he had once been so flatteringly
received — what would they think and say
upon finding Elkington's prophecies true? That he
was an adventurer without means? Madame Wharton,
General St. Hillaire, Monsieur and Madame de
N—, and half a dozen others, who had always remained
kind towards him, and who even generously
and confidingly offered their intimacy with him—would
not even they now fall off? Would not the pompous
and conceited Carolan, whose mind and heart seemed
filled with egotism, to the exclusion of sense and feeling,
now have facts of his own to state against him?
Had he not broken his word? Had he not borrowed
money which he was unable to pay? Sharp was the
pang with which he revolved these thoughts; another
day passed away, we will not describe how painfully.
The next morning he determined to go forth into the
air, hoping that a walk, his favourite resource in moments
of agitation, would cool the fever of his blood,
and suggest some more favourable view of his prospects.

He had taken his hat and was about leaving the
room, when a man entered. He was a chasseur of
Count Carolan's. He had known him previously, and
had remarked in him a watchful attention to his wishes,
and a profound respect almost ludicrous. There was
now a change in his manner. He came in without
knocking, slammed the door after him, and neither
took off his hat nor raised his hand as was his custom.

“Monsieur le Comte sends this letter, and begs an
answer.”

Claude looked at him with astonishment, then broke
the seal. As he did so, the man walked around the
room, examined the pictures upon the walls, and half
hummed a tune. The letter ran thus:

“Count Carolan begs that Mr. Wyndham will give
the bearer the £50, or that he will name an hour during
the day that he will deposite the sum at his banker's.
He will please to communicate with the bearer.”

“Do you know the contents of this letter?” demanded
Claude.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Tell your master I will see the banker upon the
subject in the course of the morning.”

“Non, monsieur. It must be done at once. Monsieur
le Comte requested me not to leave you without
either the money, or your distinct promise to pay it at
a fixed hour to-day. Monsieur le Comte has sent to
the police also to stop your passport.”

“My passport! The police!”

“Oui, monsieur,” said the man, with a smile; at
the same time arranging his cravat and collar somewhat
affectedly.

There is something in petty insolence more difficult
to endure than in insults more pronounced. Claude
felt all his self-government necessary to restrain him
from thrusting the fellow down stairs.

“I will see the banker at two this morning,” said
Claude; “or, if your master wishes, I will see himself.”

“Non, monsieur; Monsieur le Comte does not wish
to see you. He wishes you to transact business with
me.”

“With you?”

“Oui, monsieur;” and he sat down upon the sofa;
“and I wish you to make haste, if you please, for I
too am a little pressed. Monsieur might as well give
the money, or worse may come of it.”

“When your master sends a messenger whom a
gentleman can receive or a gentleman would send,”
said Claude, “I will return an answer.”

“Oh, very well, monsieur,” said the man. “You
mean to be impertinent, I see. I shall wait, however,
till Monsieur le Comte sends another messenger, which
he will probably do presently.”

And he very coolly raised his legs upon the sofa,
and, reaching a book, opened it with the air of a young
lord looking into the last new novel.

It is said that there is an end to all things. However
that may be respecting other matters, there was
certainly an end to Claude's patience. He grasped,
very leisurely, the fellow by the throat, and lifted him
unceremoniously to the door.

“You shall give me the satisfaction of a gentleman,
you shall—or I'll post you,” said the man.

The next moment he was thrust down stairs at some
peril to his neck.

“Well,” said Claude, heated and indignant, “I
commence my new condition well. Is it possible that
Carolan can have already heard the change in my fortune?
Who could tell him? What mystery surrounds
me? What devils are sporting with my destiny?”

He once more took his hat, but he was again interrupted
by the waiter of the hotel.

“Ah! by-the-way,” said Claude, “I forgot I had
rung; but did you see that fellow whom I put out of
my room just now?”

“Yes,” said the man, bluntly.

“Well, never let him enter my door again.”

“He's got as much right here as others,” said the
man, quietly; “perhaps more.”

“What do you mean, you scoundrel?” said Claude.

“Civil words, mein herr,” said the man. “There's
your bill!”

“My bill! I did not order it.”

“No, I suppose not.”

The truth crossed his mind.

“Well, put it on the table. I'll look over it.”

The man went out and left the door open.

“Come back,” said Claude, “and shut the door
after you.”

The fellow turned his face, whistled, and went on
his way without paying him the slightest attention.

“Ah! I forgot,” thought Claude. “I am poor. It
is already known.” And, with a heavy heart, he made
a third attempt to walk, which was luckily successful,
though, as he went out, the landlord and waiter eyed
him a with suspicion which almost indicated an intention
to stop him.

Sad were his thoughts as he sought once again his
favourite retreats in the Thiergarten; and it was characteristic
of him, that the disappointment to which his
adversity would subject Rossi, and particularly Mrs.
Denham and Ellen, gave him much pain, even amid
his gloomy views of his own future affairs. Embarrassment,
humiliation, and actual want stared him in
the face.

It was deep noon as he found himself in the centre
of the wood. The Park at this hour, in the middle of
a summer day, appears like the cool abodes of the
blessed. It is almost entirely deserted by human intruders.
The labourers are at their toil; the fashion-hunters
are generally abroad elsewhere at the various
watering-places in search of pleasure, and those in
town postpone their drive till the sultry heat has given
way to the cool afternoon shadows. Scarcely any
one is seen, except some student with his book, his
long hair, unshorn beard, open collar, and velvet coat,
giving to him the appearance of an Italian of the middle
ages; or perhaps a bronzed peasant-woman dropping
beneath a heavy burden, or an officer riding
along the deeply-shaded avenues, his bright uniform,
nodding feather, and horse glancing through the trees.
The breath of this charming wood was cool and fragrant,
as its moist paths and fanciful bridges are profusely

fringed with flowers. The little islands lay in
the motionless water fresh and green. The birds called
to each other through the silent glades. The beak
of the woodpecker made the forest resound, and the
squirrels leaped, paused, and listened in the road; and
the swans, those most beautiful objects in creation,
when throned on the water, gave to the landscape the
air of some enchanted island, which might have intreasured
the perennial bowers of Calypso and her
nymphs; “and never,” thought Claude, “did the son
of Ulysses meet danger more formidable, and the dear
guide of his steps far away.”

Beautiful did this calm, bright world look to Claude
on that morning; but the topics which pressed immediately
upon him left him little leisure for his ordinary
and almost voluptuous enjoyment of nature. Something
must be done at once; action—instant action
was demanded. He could not, without a kind of dishonesty,
sleep that night in the hotel. Where was he
to sleep? He had no friend to whom he could disclose
his new calamity; and if he had, taken in conjunction
with all that had happened, could they believe
him? How was he to pay his debts? How
was he to procure food for the sustenance of life?
He had a valuable wardrobe; watch, rings, diamond
pin; a horse, saddle, bridle. He thought these might
bring enough to pay Carolan, the banker in London,
and his bills in Berlin. He determined, without hesitation,
to sell everything—to the very coat he had on,
rather than wrong any one. He resolved to dress
himself at once in clothes befitting his new state.
He resolved to listen to no false pride or shame.
Honour, he felt, was in itself, not in “the trappings
and the suits” in which men too often look for it. As to
occupation, there was but one. His own taste had
rendered him a proficient in languages. He made a
wry face at it, but, before he had walked an hour he
had come to the resolution to offer himself that day as
a teacher of English. The smile—the sneer—the

scornful whisper of those who had predicted his downfall,
when they should witness it, rose before him.
But his mind was really brave, and the habit of looking
to itself—and to its Maker for right, enabled him
to bear up against these painful anticipations. As for
the blow which he had at first thought could never
leave his mind—already, in the wholesome exercise
of action, in the preparations to meet the real exigences
and sober duties of life, he had forgotten it.
Even Ida, now that occupation had displaced idle
reveries, he regarded with cooler judgment. His love
for her was far from being abated. It was even
increased by what had happened. But it was divested
of hope. It had assumed the character of an enchanting
dream—to sooth sometimes hereafter his solitary
moments—to compensate him for the homely cares of
life—to be gazed at, as the mariner watches the polar
star, who, without thinking to reach it, makes it the
guide of his steps.

While pursuing these thoughts he had penetrated
into the most solitary and unfrequented recesses,
where indeed there was no regular footpath, but only
green lanes winding through thick shrubbery, and lofty
trees for the accommodation of single horsemen. He
had reached the end of his walk and was preparing to
return, when his foot struck against something heavy,
which he would have taken to be a stone but for a peculiar
sound. He passed on for several moments, but
retraced his steps. He had even some difficulty in
discovering the spot. It was moist earth, and the long
grass and thick surrounding shrubbery showed that it
was rarely trodden by the foot of man. After feeling
about for some time with his foot, he struck the object
again. It was half buried in the ground. He picked
it up. It was a stout leathern purse, quite full. He
opened it. The contents were Louis. He sat down
and counted them. There were two hundred and
fifty. He emerged from the shadowy recess and looked
around. Not a person was to be seen. He gazed

upward. The branches hung motionless and solitary.
Though he half expected to behold some human face
gazing on him, the wood was as hushed as at midnight,
except occasionally the woodpecker tapped the
hollow trunk of the beech; or an acorn fell, dropping
through the leaves; or a squirrel stood erect, listening
and starting, close to his side, as if watching against
every intruder; or the crow, which slowly floated
over him close to the tree-tops, uttered his hoarse cry.
He looked at the purse again. It was wet, mildewed,
and nearly decayed. The clasp was covered with
mould. It had possibly been months—perhaps years
where he had found it.

He advanced towards home. A ragged man met
him. His features were bloated with intemperance.
His face was haggard, and yet vicious in its expression,
and he was almost destitute of clothing.

“A penning!” said he, holding out his hand.

Claude gave him a groschen. He looked at it, surprised
at receiving so much more than he had asked
for, and went away looking back once or twice. He
little knew how near he had been to wealth. Claude
thought of the blessing which that money would be to
him and to himself, but he thought of it without wavering.
He knew the course of right was fixed, and
was not only the noblest, but the most advantageous
to pursue.

“Elkington has accused me of dishonourable intentions,”
he thought. “I could have shot him for
the slander. But what would that prove? Here
Heaven sends me an occasion to confute the charge
by my conduct!”

And, had he been about to expend the money in
pleasure, he could not have felt more impatience than
he experienced to return the new-found treasure to its
owner.