University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIII.

While Claude was reading this long communication,
the messenger, who had been despatched on the
occasion as one capable of rendering the most requisite

information and services under the present circumstances,
had ascertained the debt for which his
new master was imprisoned, and had sent to pay the
same. Claude had not finished studying this deeply-interesting
letter when the order arrived for his release.
The man respectfully asked for his farther
commands.

“Have the prisoners all assembled at once,” said
Claude, “and ascertain the aggregate amount of their
debts.”

A group of poor devils gathered around with awestruck
looks, for they had just learned that their fellow-prisoner
was no less a personage than the Earl of
Beverly, and as rich as the king. The sum of their
debt was one hundred and eighty thalers. Some of
them had been confined for eleven months.

“Pay them all,” said Claude, “and give every
man a five thaler note. Find out, also, an appropriate
café, and order a good dinner for them to drink my
health. Attend to this first.”

The crowd of poor wretches, in their greasy sheepskin
robes de chambre, looked at each other and at
the beneficent being who, as if fallen from heaven, had
thus suddenly appeared among them. It was curious
to observe the various effects which the announcement
of their release had upon their respective deportments.
Some stood stupified—some danced, leaped about, and
shouted like madmen—some ran up to him, knelt, and
kissed the hem of his coat—some broke out into fierce
exclamations of delight, mingled with oaths—and one
stood perfectly still, betraying his emotion only by his
silent tears. It is possible that a portion of these worthy
gentlemen would have done society quite as much
service under lock and key as at large; but there were
others who presented cases of homely but real misfortune.
The poor fellow last alluded to, whose eyes
filled with tears of gratitude and joy, Claude found
had been imprisoned for one thaler the day before.
He had left a sick, motherless child at home, and had

gone out to buy medicine, when his creditor laid
hands on him, and, deaf to every prayer and explanation,
threw him into prison.

Other proper donations were ordered, particularly
to the good commissioner and the honest turnkey; and
James, with that unalterable respect with which a good
English servant always communicates with his master,
touched his hat and stated that a carriage was
ready, and that he had already procured apartments in
a hotel for his lordship. As one in an enchanting
dream, Claude took up his worn hat and prepared to
bid adieu for ever to this dismal abode. As he reached
the lower corridor, prisoners, turnkeys, commissioners,
gens d'armes, were all ranged on either side
to see him pass. Every hand was extended, every
face was lighted with joy. No kingly palace in Europe
showed a happier picture on that day, and many
a one a more sad, than the medley of friends who
greeted, with hearty tokens of respect and admiration,
the now once more uplifted brow of our hero. As the
doors opened, and a waft of fresh air came to his heated
face, and the honest fellows saw a plain but very
elegant carriage waiting, and their patron aided into it
by his servant, the ordinary restrictions of the prison
were forgotten alike by keeper and prisoner, and
three cheers were given, again, again, and again, so
that they had turned the corner before these vociferous
ebullitions of triumph had died away.

Lost in astonishment, bewildered, and incredulous,
and fearing each moment to awake and find around
him the naked and blackened walls of a loathsome
prison, which were to bury him, perhaps for life, from
the blessed light of nature, Claude reached his hotel,
ordered a warm bath, some linen, and his old tailor.
He found that James had chosen the most fashionable
hotel in the town, and selected the best apartments in
it. He was, in fact, by a curious coincidence, in the
very rooms formerly occupied by Elkington, and from
which he had gone forth to the fatal encounter with

poor, poor Denham! and this presenting a new idea,
he sat down and instantly wrote his London banker
the name of that lady, and desired that she might be
sought and supplied with what funds she might require.
He wrote also to her. By this time his bath
—a luxury he had not enjoyed for many a month—arrived,
the men bringing it approaching him with profound
salutations and distant awe. James ministered
to him like an angel. He not only supplied all his
slightest wishes before they were expressed, but he
even suggested them before they were formed; and as
if borne floating, without care or effort, on some enchanting
tide, everything went exactly as it should.
Everybody came exactly at the proper moment. The
tailor had on hand, yet unsold, all his ample and elegant
wardrobe. James himself was a barber, tailor,
housekeeper, valet, courier, counsellor, and friend, all
in one, and without ever presuming upon a smile or
look of familiarity, or performing his innumerable and
delightful services as other than the ordinary noiseless
and delicate attentions of a thorough-bred English
valet.

The bath was brought to his room. He was left
alone. He sat down on a sofa with a singular feeling.
He was now rich. The secret which had covered
him with odium and sorrow was revealed. He was
placed among the great and opulent of the earth. Ida,
who loved him—all obstacles to their union were removed.
His heart, like a goblet full to overflowing,
trembled with the weight of its oppressive load. His
past life—his loneliness—his abandonment—his prison
—those dismal, filthy walls—those rude, coarse crowds
among whom he had been thrust—his poverty—his anguish,
came sweeping over him now in such a solemn
and dark train of images—such phantoms of horror—
such remorseless fiends, from whom he had been rescued
by that unseen Hand whose aid he had invoked
—all that despair and humiliation could not do, this
moment of happiness effected; and, overcome with his

emotions, he laid his face in his hands—an agitation
like an earthquake passed through his soul—shook the
very foundations of his being—and tears, such as he
had never shed before, rose to his eyelids and fell silently
to the floor.

“And God grant,” he thought, as relieved by his
tears, an exquisite sense of the reality and luxury of
his new position came over him, “that it may never
make my heart as hard and inflated as Carolan's.”

Carolan! his mother! Ida! Thoughts pressed on
him too soft, too daring, too dazzling. His unaccustomed
mind could not receive them. They pained
and oppressed by their brightness and magnitude.
He turned from them, resolving to give the day to idleness,
incapacitated as he was for any serious employment
or meditation.

He had about half finished dinner when a waiter
announced a stranger.

“But my lord is occupied,” said James.

Claude started—was he speaking of him?

“My lord is at dinner!” continued James.

“The gentleman must see his lordship!” said the
man, in an under tone. “He says he is an old, dear
friend.”

“Lavalle!” said Claude, with eager pleasure.
“Show him in, James!”

And with a good deal of noise and in a perturbation
of delight, hastening to him and embracing him with
the liveliest marks of friendship, in rushed Thomson.

“My dear Wyndham! my dear, dear fellow! I
beg you ten thousand pardons for interrupting your
dinner—but old friends, you know! Thank God! I
have found you at last. I have heard it all. I congratulate
you, my dearest fellow—I do, upon my soul!
I am the first—ain't I? I have been travelling after
you in a drosky. I went down to the prison—to the
police. Enfin vous voici! I am the happiest dog in the
world. But what's the matter? You look ill—you
look grave. Allons! Take a glass of Champagne.

Garçon, some wine! That will revive you. This is
too much for your shattered nerves. Dieu! how I
have felt for you!”

James stood motionless, but glanced his eye at his
master.

“Pour him out a glass of wine, James,” said Claude,
coldly.

Thomson took it and drank it; but all its foaming
inspiration could not counteract the effect of the cold
courtesy with which Claude received him.

“What! Comment! vous ne buvez pas, mon
cher? Que diable! What's the matter? I hope no
ill news.”

“Of a kind,” said Claude, “which will prevent my
enjoying the society of Mr. Thomson any longer;
therefore I shall make no apology for depriving myself
of it. James, show the gentleman down.”

“Comment! Positively! c'est de rigueur! Well,
I'll look in again. Don't think to get rid of me so easily,
mon cher. Nothing I love better than old friends.
Adieu! Au revoir! a demain, mon enfant! Don't
come to the stairs. Au revoir!”

The next day—for the public journals had given the
news, although erroneously in many particulars, yet
correctly in the general outline—carriage after carriage
came thundering to the door, and a regiment of chasseurs,
with a perfect shower of cards. Claude had
left orders to be out. As each card was brought in
upon a silver salver, by a white-gloved domestic, to
him who yesterday was on the point of starving in a
jail for a thaler! Claude saw, with that quiet contempt
which the conduct of many people is calculated
to inspire for human nature, that they who had been
most marked in their slights of him in the moment of
his downfall, and who had not recognised him even
when he spoke to them, were now among the first to
call; but he saw also, with a bounding heart, the names
of many whom he sincerely esteemed and loved, and
who had been the same to him in all things, whether

prosperity shone on him, or dark misfortune lowered
around his head. He was now on an eminence whence
he could choose his friends; and he resolved, while he
was courteous to all, and while he laid aside every
thought of relaliation against those who had exposed
their meanness and folly (except, indeed, individuals
who, like Thomson, had been offensive by their impertinence),
that he would cherish with sincerity those
gentle and refined hearts whose sweetness and purity
had been tasted when they could never expect any return.

The poor old woman with whom he had lodged
claimed his attention, and he settled on her a small but
sufficient annuity. He returned in haste the calls of
his brilliant friends, who once more sought him with
new avidity. He made friendly visits to a few families
whom he really found worthy of lasting friendship.
He spent a long evening with the good Mr. Kühl,
whose respect for him almost interfered with his
friendship, and who could call him nothing but “monseigneur.”
A few days were occupied on these matters.
He had written daily to his mother; and could we
present to the reader those effusions of his soul, now
for the first time giving vent to affections which had
been so long pent up in its hidden recesses, they would
be found interesting specimens of his mind and nature.
James proposed that they should set out immediately
for London; but then first learned, with a consternation
which he could not conceal, that his young master had
determined to go directly to France.

“But your lordship does not know, perhaps,” said
James, “that France is in the whirl of a revolution
which threatens to swallow up thousands, without
discrimination of rank or innocence. The Marquis of
E— is informed distinctly on the subject. If you
venture within the precincts of that unhappy country,
you will never escape alive. You are an Englishman,
and the slightest tinge in your accent will betray you
to the guillotine. Your rank and fortune will make

you but a more conspicuous mark. Your death is as
certain, my lord, as if you walked into the crater of a
volcano. It is infatuation—it is madness. No one
can live there without continual danger. The very
king is trembling for his life. I beg, I implore you
to abandon your design. Nothing but a conviction that
I am pleading for your life could make me so free in
addressing your lordship.”

“My good James,” said Claude, “I may confide to
you the secret that a valued friend is almost alone and
defenceless in the midst of these dangers, which you
depict, I do not doubt, without exaggeration. It is
true that my hope of even finding her is vague—of rescuing
her is more so; but I am resolved to try.”

“Her?” said James; “a lady! Then I fear it is
all over with us.”

“I may add, that she is one in whom Madame—
in whom my mother is as much interested as I. You
must prepare everything for my departure to-morrow
morning.”

“Your lordship will excuse me from accompanying
you farther than the frontier, because I regard going
farther as certain death.”

“Certainly,” said Claude; “I shall go alone and
immediately.”

James said no more, but shook his head ominously.

The next evening there was a grand soirée chez le
Prince R. A strong curiosity prevailed to see the
young hero, whom fortune appeared to have rewarded
so munificently for his firm adherence to a principle.
The cause of Elkington's persecutions was now perfectly
clear. Claude's courage once established, as it
had been by his brave deportment in the affair of Rossi
and Ida, his previous forbearance was found sublime;
and every one longed to greet him, and to repair by
their attentions their former neglect. The assembly
was crowded and brilliant in the extreme; and many a
beautiful toilet was arranged with additional care at
the thoughts that this now distinguished young nobleman

was to behold it. The disappointment and surprise
were great when it was understood that he had
that morning left town for Paris!

“Ah Dieu! was the general exclamation. “Il faut
du courage pour ça!”