University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

It was night when Claude reached his hotel—amid
all his troubles, happy in the consciousness that they
were incurred without wrong on his own part, and delighted
with the happiness he had been the means of
communicating to the poor old lady, and the acquittal
which he had caused to the innocent stranger.

“There is a pretty company waiting for you up
stairs,” said the waiter who had presented the bill.

“A pretty company?”

“Oui, monsieur. Very pretty. Keh! don't be impatient.
They be not run away.”

At a loss to conceive to what this impertinence referred,
he mounted to his room. In the little antechamber
sat three persons, of whom one was a youth
dressed in a very pretending way. The other was a
plain-looking man; the third an athletic person of forty.
His uncommon stature, brawny hands, and broad shoulders
gave token of great muscular strength. Each had
a bill in his hand, and each stepped up to him at once
and handed their accounts. They were messengers
from a tailor, a livery-stable keeper, and a barber. The
latter was he whose toilet had at first made upon him
the impression of a young nobleman, with his long
mustache, his carefully dressed hair, his elegant clothes,
the whiteness and delicacy of his hands, and the general
imitation of a person of rank. His bill was for
soap, perfumes, brushes, honing razors, cutting hair,
and numerous other matters. It amounted to 20 thalers.
The coach bill, and that for keeping the saddle-horse,
amounted to the more serious sum of 100 thalers;
while the tailor held out a “rechnung,” at the
bottom of which a total of 290 thalers stared him in
the face. Perhaps few novel-writers could subject
their hero to a crisis so unromantic, but they could
scarcely lead him into one more disagreeable. Haunted
castles, blood-stained floors, and gliding spectres,
with all the paraphernalia of Mrs. Radcliffe's or Maturin's
stories, would have been more tolerable to Claude
than these three bills of paper at the present moment.
The idea of being in debt mastered his fortitude. It
was precisely the thing for which the consciousness of
virtue offered no consolation, and wisdom and philosophy
no remedy. He could neither advance, stand still,
nor retreat. He could neither tell the truth nor remain
silent; and the intruders, who had thus early come,

like ominous seabirds before a storm, to give him a
melancholy foretaste of poverty, were not long in discovering
his confusion; and their manners changed at
once from their usual exuberant respect to mingled
astonishment and insolence. There are few men who
look upon a debtor but as in some degree their property.
Pecuniary responsibility generally breaks al
ties—absolves from all courtesy—raises the creditor
to the eminence of a despot, and often inspires him
with the desire of exercising the arbitrary power of
one. The helpless debtor must be suspected, accused,
insulted in silence. The attacks of others are unsupported
by self-approbation and the natural independence
of a man. He is a slave, chained to be spit upon
by the angry and laughed at by the unfeeling; and his
own heart, alas! joins his enemies, and pleads against
him.

“You must come in next day after to-morrow,” said
Claude.

“Ah, keh!” said the barber. “Diable, monsieur!
Do you believe I have nothing to do but run after—
after—non, monsieur!”

“You are going to quit Berlin,” said the groom.

“No, upon my honour.”

“Ah, keh! honour!—diable!—when you don't pay
your debts!” said the barber, putting on his hat, knocking
it down over his eyes, and thrusting his hands into
his trousers pockets.

“I assure you,” said Claude, quietly, “I do not
mean to leave Berlin.”

“That's a lie, monsieur,” said the groom. “Your
passport has been stopped, or you would have been off
before now.”

Claude stepped towards the last speaker, and was
going to put him out of the room, when he reflected
that the man knew no better, and that, alas! he had
some cause to think as he spoke. He paused, with a
shame and incertitude which the debtor must often feel.

“You are a very impudent fellow,” said he.

“Eh, bah!” said the barber; “a pretty gentleman!
—awh—honour! ha! ha! ha! Voila! monsieur.
There's my bill; I don't stir till it's paid.”

The tailor's man now stepped up.

“Mr. Wyndham, can you give me the money or any
security?”

“No.”

“Well, sir, you are a—swindler, sir! and, if I had
you in a field, I'd give you the soundest drubbing you
ever had in your life. Mind, sir, I warn you, the first
time I meet you in the street, I'll—a gentleman, indeed!
—an adventurer! I've half a mind—”

The man shook his huge fist so near his face that it
touched his nose.

There are few men who could avoid plunging into
a brawl upon such provocation, and fewer novelists
who would have the hardihood, in spite of the prejudices
of the age, to represent a patient sufferer of such
opprobrious terms and insulting actions. But Claude's
mind was high, calm, and reflective; and it is one of
the blessings of great sacrifices that they render minor
ones more easy. Claude, who had borne a blow from
the hand of a gentleman, under the most aggravated
circumstances which could attend such a humiliating
infliction, saw nothing to drive him from his balance
in the brutality of uneducated and coarse men, in the
exercise of what they deemed their duty, and who
would have been much better pleased with him had he
been imprudent enough to put himself on a level with
them by commencing a collision. He said, therefore,
without passion,

“My good friends, I owe you money. I am unable
to pay you at present, in consequence of a misfortune.
You have your remedy, if you think it worth adopting.
I shall not leave Berlin, and—you must take your
course.”

His calmness appeared to puzzle the men, and even
to abate the indignation of all, except the barber. So
true it is that a mild word turneth away wrath.

“You must be aware, monsieur,” said the tailor,
“that 290 thalers is a large sum to lose for a poor,
hard-working man like me—with a large family, too.”

“Indeed,” said Claude, “I will do all in my power
to prevent your losing it. I shall not leave Berlin—be
assured I shall not; and you should remember that,
in using the language of insult towards me, you are
condemning me before you know whether I deserve it.”

“Eh, keh! diable!” said the barber; “laissez nous!”

“Have you any prospect of ever paying me?” asked
the tailor.

“No, frankly,” said Claude, “in money; I have not,
at least, any certain prospect. I am totally ruined;
but I shall do my best to prevent any one's losing;
and, moreover, the greater part of the clothes you have
made for me are in that wardrobe; you may take them
if you will, this moment.”

The man seemed as much surprised by the beginning
as by the end of this reply. He answered with
greater respect,

“Well, I will take the clothes.”

“It is but just you should,” said Claude.

And, opening the wardrobe, he laid out the whole
contents of his wardrobe, much of which was scarcely
worn, besides the court suit, which our poor fortune-hunted
traveller did not see thus pass away without a
sigh over the brilliant associations—the royal halls—
the midnight suppers—the delightful dinners—and the
hours spent in company of one he was now, perhaps,
never to see again, which it conjured up.

The man swung them on his shoulders, and with an
awkward bow went away.

Claude then sat down and wrote an order for the
horse.

“For you,” said he to the groom, “you can take
your master this. It is my authority to sell the horse,
and indemnify himself, as far as possible, for the loss
I have occasioned him.”

The man took it and also went away.

“Et moi, monsieur!” said the barber, folding his
arms insolently, and standing close to Claude with his
feet a yard apart.

“There is your money,” said Claude; “write me
a receipt.”

The man did so. The money was, by a curious
chance, the very last groschen he had in the world.
There was even a penning—the smallest coin—deficient.

“Monsieur, there is wanting a penning,” said the
man.

“I have no more.”

“I can change a bill,” said the barber.

“I have no bill,” said Claude.

“Eh! keh!” said the little dandy. “It appears,
monsieur, that I am just in time. Ha! ha! ha! parbleu!
Au revoir, mon cher!”

“Well, now I am at the worst.”

But he was not at the worst. Poverty never is; low
as it may be, there is always a chosen step lower in
humiliation and misery. It is at the worst only in the
grave.

“Ah, Ida!” thought he, “little do you dream, amid
your stately grandeur—”

His reflection was cut short.

The door opened without a knock, and a stranger
entered. He had under his arm a large package of
papers. He was followed by a second—a polite little
man, plainly dressed; behind him stood two more—
stout, rough, grave-looking fellows, each with a large
club; and in the shadow of the corridor, half seen, stood
yet a fifth, whose stature and proportion were greater
than those of his companions, and who also leaned silently
upon a heavy cane. Claude started at this apparition.

“I beg your pardon,” said the first. “I have come
to arrest you, at the suit of Count Carolan, for £50.”

“It is not possible!” said Claude.

“I am very sorry—it is a most painful duty—but it
is a duty, and my instructions are—positive.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Claude.
“Certainly Count Carolan would not—could not—”

“I beg your pardon—I received his commands in
person,” said the polite man. “I am his lawyer. I
hope you will excuse us; but you know, my dear sir,
our profession has its unpleasant features—and in this
we are but the mere instruments of another.”

“And where must I go?”

“To the debtor's jail in — street.”

“Why, I have been told that is the receptacle for
the refuse of the town,” said Claude, drawing back
with considerable alarm. “There is a more respectable
prison?”

“Unfortunately, that is full.”

“But there is a mode,” said Claude, “by which I
may be arrested differently—by which I may be guarded
in a separate room.”

“These are privileges reserved only for people of a
certain standing in society.”

“But—I—” said Claude, “my position—I was assured—my
claim to belong to that class—”

“So we thought,” said the lawyer; “but Count
Carolan refused to listen to it. He said you did not
belong to that class, and had no claim to the privileges
of une personne distinguée.”

“I am ready,” said Claude.

“Will monsieur like me to call a droskey?” said
one of the men.

“Yes, certainly—no,” said Claude, remembering he
was penniless.

The sturdy bailiffs, shouldering their clubs, surrounded
him, and he passed into the street. As he left the
door of his hotel a splendid equipage drove by, the
coachman and two chasseurs in the richest livery. He
recognised the carriage of Carolan. The count himself
was in it, with Ida. He caught a rapid glance at
her face as they dashed by. They were probably
going to a ball. Perhaps it might have been from the

light of the street-lamps, but the face of Ida appeared
sad and pale.

“Go on, fair and sweet girl,” thought Claude; “thou
to the bright haunts of pride and pleasure—I to prison
and despair.”

He went on his way to the prison, envying the meanest
of the careless crowd about him, who, whatever
were their privations, had at least their freedom. He
passed by many a gay-lighted shop, full of people—
many a café, where young officers and élegans were
sipping their cream or coffee. He passed the theatre—its
windows lighted—and the armed horseman
stationed in the middle of the street before the door,
guarding the votaries of pleasure from any interruption.
Some of the passengers were hastening by, humming;
the little boys, as if prisons and miseries had no existence,
were shouting in their careless sports; laughter
and music met his ears; and the very barking of
the dog had in it something careless, something free,
which contrasted mournfully with his situation. Once
a sudden melody from a band of wind instruments broke
from a neighbouring street. Soft—plaintive—slow,
it swelled upon the air till he passed close to the musicians,
who retreated behind him, their sweet strains
dying away like the last relic of happiness—and of the
world. His way lay through the Schloss, that vast
and gloomy pile, whose immense courts, towering
walls, and heavy sculpture impressed the mind with
a vague sense of horror and grandeur. A part of it
was white in the moonlight, while its broad angles and
massive buttresses threw the rest into black shadows.
Often had he lingered amid these stately courts, touched
with their huge and solemn character, and many
an hour had fleeted away in their gorgeous apartments.
The guards paced to and fro before the arches and
along the balconies. Several domestics in the royal
livery were passing formally across the broad and
worn pavement. A carriage, easily distinguishable as
that of one of the royal family, was drawn up at the

foot of a broad flight of stone stairs. So susceptible
was Claude to picturesque beauty in the common
scenes of life, that he paused to gaze with a kind of
pleasant awe at these high-towering walls, crowned
with statues, and their dark irregular summits marked
along the sky—and the stars—the moon—the all that
was visible above through the few filmy clouds, drifting
with a soft, silent motion, apparently close along
the high roofs. He forgot that he was a captive as
his eye measured these lofty walls.

“Allons, monsieur, allons,” said one of the men,
touching his shoulder slightly with his extended fingers,
“we have no time to lose.”

And he proceeded on his course, without again looking
around or above till he reached the prison.

The building was a large, dark-looking edifice of
great extent. The windows were in the shadow, but
the grated bars were distinguishable, and their lower
parts were strongly boarded up. One look around at
the broad square, of which this receptacle formed the
prominent feature—at the shoreless, tranquil, ever-bright
heavens—and the door was opened with a clanking
noise of chains and bolts, was shut again with the
same ominous sounds, and he was within the walls of
a jail. His reflections on entering it were not rendered
less gloomy by the consciousness that he was there
for a just debt, which he scarcely believed it would
ever be in his power to pay. His conductors led him,
with a sinking heart, into a low, smoked room, dimly
lighted by a tallow candle. There were some white
pine-board furniture, consisting of desks, dirty engravings,
&c. Here they demanded his money. He had
none. They required to search him. He submitted.
The man exchanged a few trivial remarks upon matters
in no way connected with him, and had one or two
jokes about something which had happened during the
day, and at which they laughed heartily. In the midst
of these a new face appeared with a large key. It
was that of his jailer. He was an athletic man with
a good-humoured countenance.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” said he. “Allons, you must
come with me.”

He led the way up one flight of naked, desolate
stairs; long, dismal corridors stretched from the landing-place
on either hand. They mounted yet another
flight. Things here looked even more dismal. The
air was close and fetid, and impregnated with sickening
odours, among which the fumes of bad tobacco
were pre-eminent. He followed his new master—as a
felon—to a door, from which he withdrew the bolts,
and which he then unlocked. The massive key turned
twice with a clanking spring ere the last barrier between
poverty and the happy world was passed, and
Claude found himself in a filthy and extremely bad-smelling
apartment, crowded with unhappy wretches,
the smoke of a just extinguished candle filling his
throat and nostrils. A dozen common straw beds lay
on the floor, each belonging to a prisoner. It was
eleven at night. The men, although they had evidently
been up—and Claude detected near the candle the
end of a pack of dirty cards thrust hastily beneath
some clothes—made a great parade of rising and putting
on their clothes. One said, “Light the candle;”
another, “Where's the phosphorus?” and presently
their candle was again lighted and their garments put
on.

“Good. Here you are at last!” said the jailer,
with a benevolent smile; and then withdrawing, he
closed the door and doubly locked it, the whole company
shaking their fingers at him, with many expressions
of derision or rage, as he disappeared. All was
now curiosity among the prisoners. They gathered
around the new-comer with a freedom and a familiarity
which he knew not how to avoid as little as to endure.
His tall, noble form—his air of good-breeding
and affluence—the elegance of his dress, created as
great a sensation as that produced by Gulliver when
found by the Lilliputians. At length one of them came
up to him, and asked, with marks of curiosity,

“Are you here for debt?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got any money?” demanded another.

“No.”

“But how are you arrested at this time of night?”

“That's not legal,” said a second.

“No, indeed,” rejoined a third.

And then they drew up together in a corner, and
held a kind of council of war, canvassing the cruelty
and illegality of such a measure, and declaring that he
would be “out to-morrow.” In the mean time, one
took his hat and another his gloves. One offered to
make tea—another proposed coffee; and, notwithstanding
his attempts to withdraw himself from such friendly
obligations, one of his companions had a spirit-lamp
lighted, and by the aid of some hot water, and in an
old, broken, dirty teapot, with three or four leaves of
bad tea, boiled for ten minutes, he presently produced
what he was pleased to offer as “a good, strong cup
of tea.”

Claude took it and attempted to drink. It seemed
a type of his bitter and mean destiny, and he felt that
he could not too soon begin to accustom himself to the
loathsome draught. Besides, he was reluctant to offend
the unhappy beings who, however rude and different
from the polished companions of his past hours,
seemed, at least kind in their intentions. They were
coarse, vulgar, and repulsive, but alas! they were all
the friends he had left. A vacant bed of straw was
pointed out to him as that he was to occupy. Before
they retired he found great differences in their character.
One was a dissolute knave in every word and
action, and he was the most familiar with him. Another
was really kind, and comparatively disinterested. The
rascal (who one of them whispered had once before
been in another prison for robbery) approached him,
and joined him as he walked up and down the narrow
floor. He told him, in a few words, how the prisoners
lived. “They had two meals a day, handed up in large

pails. The coarsest, cheapest food which could support
life. They had one hour a day to exercise in a
kind of court a few yards square, itself full of putrid
odours. The light was to be put out every night at
ten. All friends coming to visit them were to pay at
the door two and a half groschen. Some of the prisoners
were here for fifteen cents; and whoever remained
a year, had the right to go out at the end of that
period, and could not again be confined for the same
debt.”

“Now I,” said the man, “have come here of my
own accord. They dunned me to death at home; so
I've come here to spend my year like a gentleman,
and then—keh! I'm free as the best of 'em. Pooh!
don't be down-hearted, my buck! it's nothing when
you are once a little used to it. We smoke—play
cards—smuggle in our bottle of rum—and live like the
king. Look here,” said he, and he opened a kind of
brown paper coffer full of pipes, cheese, black bread,
bottles, tallow candles, tobacco, and half-smoked segars.
“Here is some rum—take a drop—it'll make
you sleep. They don't generally sleep the first two
or three nights, but you'll soon get used to it. If you
don't go out and in for two or three months, you won't
feel it at all. I have been here now nine months.
I'm quite sorry I'm getting through so fast. Come,
cheer up!”

And he laid his hand somewhat facetiously on
Claude's shoulder.

He shook it off, not from anger so much as a repugnance,
which he was not aware he had expressed so
clearly.

“Ah! you're particular in your acquaintance, maybe.
Well, that's all very well; but beggars shouldn't be
choosers. A gentleman as can't pay his debts oughtn't
to carry his head quite so high—no offence, I hope,
sir.”