University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVII.

One day, after he had been about two months in this
situation, he heard, early in the morning, the tread of
several clumsy feet on the stairs. There was a small
aperture in his door filled with glass, through which
the turnkey could look into his room at pleasure without
coming in. On looking through this place, he saw
four or five persons carrying down a rough pine-board
coffin. Some one was dead. It struck upon his soul
as a mournful presentiment. Alas! he too might soon
be thus borne away by rude hands to a neglected grave
—unmourned — unmissed. On inquiring, when his
turnkey came in, who had died, he found it was his
rough persecutor, who had come here voluntarily to
live like a gentleman. Poor fellow! he felt glad he
had made no return to his taunts.

“Did he suffer much?” asked Claude.

“No. It was all over in five hours after the first
attack.”

“What was the matter with him?”

The man shook his head slowly, and went out without
answering.

The next morning but one Claude was again disturbed
by the same unusual sound of heavy feet at an
early hour. He addressed himself once more to his
little keyhole. It was another coffin, resting so weightily
on the shoulders of its bearers as to leave no doubt
of its contents.

A vague suspicion arose in his mind that some pestilence
had broken out among the prisoners.

When his attendant came in again, he asked him if
it were so.

“You've hit it,” said the man, nodding his head in
the affirmative.

“What is it?” asked Claude.

“A horrid thing. It strikes you like a bullet—racks
you with cramps—turns you blue in the face—and
pops you off in short order.”

“Is it contagious?”

“Rather.”

“Are there any sick with it now?”

“One. None that has caught it has survived. One
of'em is just a-going, I'm afraid; and the worst of it
is, the doctors don't understand it, and no one'll go
near this poor fellow for fear of catching it. It is the
poor little hunchback, you know, that battled the other
ones for being cross with you.”

“And is he dying so, unattended?”

“Yes. What can one do? It's as good as death
to go near him, and he is too ill to be removed to the
hospital. I think the poor devil don't get his medicine
half the time.”

“May I go to him?”

“You?” said the man, with surprise.

“Yes. I will stay with him, if I can be permitted.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes. You've a right to the room, and it will be
very good of you; but—”

“Let me go, then, at once!”

He led the way as he spoke, and Claude again entered
the room from which he had escaped with so
much pleasure. It presented an appalling appearance.
The invalid lay in a corner—livid, and apparently dying.
The rest were withdrawn as far as possible.
He was, as the man had said, too ill to be removed to
the hospital; and they had not yet come to arrange
what ought to be done with the others. Gloomy and
haggard faces were around. The hardy mirth, which

sometimes flourishes in a prison, had disappeared.
All was ominously silent.

On approaching the patient, Claude found him very
low. His head lay in an uneasy position, the pillow
having fallen aside. Claude shook and replaced
it. A draught of a cooling nature was standing beyond
his reach on the floor.

“Drink! drink! drink!” said the poor sufferer.

“It's death to go near him!” said one of the other
prisoners, in a low voice.

Claude handed it to him according to the directions.
He seemed refreshed by it, and turned his eyes gratefully
upon his benefactor.

“I'm—most—gone!” he said, with a faint, difficult
voice. “Half an hour more!”

“My good, kind friend, can I do anything for you?”

“Pray! pray!” said the poor fellow, pointing to a
book.

Claude knelt, and read a prayer selected for the bed
of the dying.

“I have—a child!” said the man, when he had
done, with a stronger effort. “Take her that book!
They will tell you down stairs—where—to find her.
Say I blessed her—and you—God bless you. Oh!
I am cold—”

He fell back.

Claude gazed upon his face for several minutes.
A change came over it, but the spirit passed calmly.
He closed the eyes.

“To a better world, poor friend!” said Claude. “I
will do your bidding, and more, if in my power.”

He thought the scarce parted spirit heard him as it
left the body.

As he descended again to his own room, the poor
fellows around bowed to him respectfully. Some of
them blessed him. It was a simple tribute to goodness
and courage, and he felt how much more brave
as well as rational it was to turn even from the grossest
insult with patience, and to risk life only in the
cause of humanity and virtue.

In the afternoon the turnkey presented him a bill
for dinners of five thalers, stating that he had no more
cash on hand, and the restaurateur would supply no
more till he was paid. The gross prison fare rose to
his memory. He felt already his appetite failing. He
was full of pains. He believed he should soon lose
his health, and perhaps his life, if obliged to return to
a diet so repulsive and so unlike that which habit had
rendered necessary. He sat down and wrote to
Count Carolan.

It was with the last two groschens he possessed in
the world that he despatched the messenger with this
note. He felt that in writing it he had not humiliated
himself; for he considered Carolan a man whose
weak understanding caused his present obduracy more
than his bad heart. He had yet to learn how prosperity

and pride inflate and harden even the best heart,
unless watched over by a sensible mind.

The messenger returned in an hour. Claude's heart
beat and his hand actually trembled as he perceived
that the man had brought an answer.

“You found Count Carolan at home, then?”

“Yes. He gives a great dinner to-day. His door
was surrounded by carriages. Some of the princes
were there, and all the diplomatic corps. They told
me at first that he could not be troubled with this affair,
but I would not go away without an answer. I
was determined, sir.”

Claude looked at the poor menial. There was kindness
in his eye, and his face wore the expression of
humanity and commiseration, which, through its rough
and not over clean features, made it look even beautiful.

“Thank you,” said he; “I am really greatly
obliged to you.”

“I don't know, sir, but I fear Count Carolan is a
hard man when any one offends him. You are not the
first he has kept here.”

“Well, let us see,” said Claude. “He can but refuse.”
The letter ran thus:

The paper was a thick, gold-edged English sheet.
It exhaled a perfume of roses, the wax was sprinkled
with gold, and the impression of the seal was the
finely-cut arms of the family.

“Well!” said Claude, “I thought so. I—I—”

He bent his head upon the table. Long confinement

had made him nervous and hysterical. He did
not shed a tear, but he grew pale and cold as the
thought of the wide streets—the moving crowds—the
fresh, sunshiny air—the deep, cool woods—the sky
—the streams—and all the bright outward world, passed
like a vivid panorama through his imagination.

The man had gone out and closed the door softly.
The poor fellow did not wish to disturb him; and the
delicacy and refinement of this lowly heart—almost
as much immured here as himself—touched him, and
drew the tear which had not flowed at the thought of
his own disappointment.

At this instant there was a sudden rush against the
door, and a loud knocking. It was opened, and Lavalle
stood before him.

“My friend, my beloved friend!” cried he, and they
leaped into each other's arms as if they had been
brothers.

“I thought—” cried Claude, “I was sure something
had kept you.”

“I have been in France,” said Lavalle. “To-day
is the first time I have heard of it. I have scarcely
touched the ground in coming. I overturned a fellow
at the door, and expect nothing else than to be put in
here with you for assault and battery.”

“Who told you?” asked Claude, lifting his face.

“Ah, that shall be for another time; but, Dieu! how
you are altered! You are scarcely recognisable;”
and he gazed at his always handsome face, but which
now, by confinement and reflection, had acquired a
delicacy, a transparency, and an expression of intellect
and refinement rarely seen in a countenance at
the same time so firm and manly. He had never
before, indeed, remarked how extremely handsome
Claude was. His features were so finely formed—
his brows pencilled so definitely—his eyes so large
and full of soul—and his mouth cut as if by the hand
of a sculptor, all showing through a complexion which
might have been envied by a woman. Lavalle comprehended,

as he gazed on his friend, better than ever,
the impression which he suspected he had made on
the heart of Ida.

“The debt—” said Lavalle. “What is it?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“And you have been here so long for such a sum?
Pay it!—pay it ten times over!'

“Generous friend!” said Claude. “But do not be
offended. You must do me a much greater favour
than what you propose.”

“I swear to grant it, whatever it is,” said Lavalle.

“You must not pay this debt. I have abased myself
before Carolan. I must make him feel his wrong.”

“What! vengeance from you? Have you grown
wicked in your dungeon?”

“No. The vengeance I ask is to be permitted to
toil for and pay this myself. You shall get me out by
depositing the amount in court as a security for my
appearance. You are not afraid I shall run away?”

“I'm afraid you won't!” said Lavalle.

“Carolan must feel the cruelty, the—”

“Stop,” said Lavalle; “he has more excuse than you
think. He regards you as the greatest obstacle to his
wishes in existence. I have heard a foule of things
since my arrival. You know Ida and I are cousins
by the mothers. I have always been as a brother. As
for love, she knows my views lie elsewhere. The day
of the duel, Elkington pressed her to accompany his
mother to London, so that on his arrival there, at the
proper time, their union might at length take place.
Well, what did she reply? She dismissed him with
bitter contempt and horror—for ever; she declared his
principles were as repulsive to her as his person—that
the hand stained with the blood of a duel should never
touch hers in friendship again—and she did, somehow
or other, come out with the interesting avowal, that
you—from the attempts to humiliate you—had risen
superior to all your enemies. No one dreamed the
little devil had so much spirit; and she sent Elkington

spinning off, in a greater rage than he will get over in
a year. So, in revenge, he has carried away with him
that rosy-lipped Mary Digby. This fact has confirmed
the evil opinion of him which every one already
began to entertain, and has so completely convinced a
certain lovely young countess that your reported marriage
with her was all a fabrication of Elkington, that
—but this is, of course, all jest. However, it was she
who told me of your situation, and in a way which—
why, I'm worse at keeping a secret than a woman!”

“Lavalle, spare me!” said Claude. “If you mean to
intimate that I am honoured with the esteem of this
young girl, I will merit it by my conduct. Never will I
approach her. I have had a humiliating lesson. My
firmest prayer is, that we may never meet again. But
for this debt, I would leave Berlin to-night.”

“Do as you please; but what means are you going
to take to earn, as you call it, this money? You can't
plough or cut wood, can you?"

“I can teach English,” said Claude.

“You?”

“Even I.”

“You—the elegant—the flattered—the admired
Claude Wyndham—”

“Dear Lavalle, your spirits run away with you.
Remember I am weak and sad, or, at least, I have been
so so long, that even joy is a pain. When shall I be
out? I sigh for one breath of sweet, fresh air!” and,
in truth, he heaved a deep-drawn sigh.

“I shall drive at once to my banker's—to the lawyer's—to
the court. If it can be done to-day, it shall.
I'm off this very instant—”

“But, Lavalle—I am ashamed to tell you—I am actually
without food. You have come in time. I am
down to my last penning. I have eaten nothing to-day!”

“Trust to me,” said Lavalle, tears springing into
his eyes. “Trust all to me;” and he dashed off as
hastily as he had entered.

As Claude looked around upon the naked walls,
every crack of which he knew, every web of which
he had watched for hours and weeks, he almost
feared the last scene had been a dream, so bright, dazzling,
and even painful was the sudden prospect of
freedom.

In half an hour, two waiters, aproned, and bearing an
ample and very odoriferous dinner, entered. There
was everything that could tempt his palate: two or
three kinds of choice wines—segars—silver covers—
clean tablecloths and napkins. The table was spread
as if for a lord. The waiters desired to know whether
they should withdraw, and, upon receiving his answer,
they retired. Such a meal is as full of consolation for
troubles that are past, as of firm resolutions against future
evils. As he was commencing it, the commissioner
looked in for something. Claude made him sit
down with him and share the welcome feast. The
honest fellow ate as he had never eaten before; the
delicate viands disappeared with marvellous quickness,
and the sparkling Champagne was disposed of without
useless ceremonies or unnecessary delay. At the request
of Claude, the remains of the feast—and they
were ample—were conveyed up stairs to his quondam
companions; and in a quarter of an hour the dishes
and bottles were brought down in a state which the
honest commissioner declared would save the restaurateur
the trouble of washing.

“Our people up stairs, sir,” said he, “make clean
work of it. They don't get Champagne and asparagus
every day—poor devils!”

Time flew with rapidity. Evening came, and with
it the jailer, with an order from the judge. It is probable
Lavalle had already taken the necessary measures
to procure it before his visit.

“I am requested to give you what money you
want,” said the director down stairs. He was going
to make some magnificent donation to all his fellow-prisoners,
if not, in fact, to pay their debts outright,

when he remembered that he was lavishing money not
his own. He contented himself, therefore, by taking
for himself a more moderate sum than he had at first
proposed, and ordering certain benevolent favours for
the prisoners. The good commissioner was by no
means forgotten, but received a donation which he appeared
to think a fortune. After a few other donations
and arrangements, and changing his loose prison
suit for that he usually wore, he once more stepped
outside the door of his dismal abode, from which several
times he had believed he could never emerge
again till carried by careless hands to a neglected
grave.

Lavalle had sent a horse, which was held by a servant
at the door. Claude mounted into the saddle
with the feeling of a monarch who is about to return
to a kingdom he has saved, at the head of an army he
has led to victory. His sensations on riding through
the town—on feeling himself again amid moving
crowds—on passing the old Schloss—on reaching the
Brandenbourg gate, and pushing his horse to a full
gallop along the broad, fragrant avenues of the wood,
we shall leave to the imagination of the reader; hoping
that he may, if possible, often enjoy a pleasure as delightful,
without purchasing it with pains as disagreeable
as those our hero had suffered. Suffice it to say, he
suffered no disagreeable thoughts of business to break
upon the sensations of that hour. Again he breathed
the fresh air of Heaven; again the calm old trees,
streams, and flowers were around him, and no object
met his eye without conveying to his soul a sense of
pure hope and exquisite pleasure; for if the past was
without happiness, it had been also without self-reproach.