# The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 5/Chapter 107

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CHAPTER CVII
THE "LIONS' DEN"
NE division of La Force, in which the most dangerous and desperate prisoners are confined, is called the Court of Saint-Bernard. The prisoners, in their expressive language, have named it the "Lions' Den," probably because the captives possess teeth which frequently gnaw the bars, and sometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a prison; the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratings are, every day, carefully examined by jailers, whose herculean proportions and cold, pitiless expression prove them to have been chosen to reign over their subjects from their superior activity and intelligence.
The court-yard of this quarter is inclosed by enormous walls, over which the sun glances obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf of moral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to be seen, pacing from morning till night, pale, careworn, and haggard, like so many shadows, the men whom justice holds beneath the steel she is sharpening. There, crouched against the side of the wall which attracts and retains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes talking to one another, but more frequently alone, watching the door, which sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomy assemblage, or to throw in another outcast from society.
The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular parlor; it is a long square, divided by two upright gratings, placed at a distance of three feet from one another, to prevent a visitor from shaking hands with or passing anything to the prisoners. It is a wretched, damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when we consider the fearful conferences which have taken place between those iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is considered as a kind of paradise to the men whose days are numbered; it is so rare for them to leave the ​"Lions' Den" for any other place than the barrier Saint-Jacques, the galleys! or solitary confinement.
In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp vapor was rising, a young man might be seen walking, with his hands in his pockets, who had excited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the "Den." The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an elegant man, if those clothes had not been torn to ribbons; still they were not worn, and the fine cloth soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were still perfect, beneath the careful hands of the prisoner, who tried to make it assume the appearance of a new coat. He bestowed the same attention upon the cambric front of a shirt, which had considerably changed in color since his entrance into the prison, and he polished his varnished boots with the corner of a handkerchief embroidered with initials surmounted by a coronet.
Some of the inmates of the "Lions' Den" were watching the operations of the prisoner's toilet with considerable interest.
"See, the prince is beautifying himself," said one of the thieves.
"He is naturally very handsome," said another; "and if he had only a comb and some pomatum, he would soon eclipse all the gentlemen in white kids."
"His coat looks nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant to have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved shamefully. What jealousy; to tear such clothes!"
"He appears to be some one of consequence," said another; "he dresses in first-rate style. And, then, to be here so young! Oh! it is splendid!"
Meanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approached the wicket, against which one of the keepers was leaning.
"Come, sir," he said, "lend me twenty francs; you will soon be paid; you run no risks with me. Remember, I have relations who possess more millions than you have deniers. Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty francs, so that I may buy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to be in a coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of the Cavalcanti!"
The keeper turned his back, and shrugged his shoulders; he did not even laugh at what would have caused any one else to do so; he had heard so many utter the same things,—indeed, he heard nothing else.
"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man void of compassion; I will cause you to lose your place."
This made the keeper turn round, and he burst into a loud laugh. The prisoners then approached, and formed a circle.
"I tell you that with that wretched sum," continued Andrea, "I could ​obtain a coat and a room in which to receive the illustrious visitor I am daily expecting."
"He is right! he is right!" said the prisoners; "any one can see he is a gentleman!"
"Well, then, lend him the twenty francs," said the keeper, leaning on the other shoulder; "surely you will not refuse a comrade!"
"I am no comrade of these people," said the young man, proudly, "you have no right to insult me thus."
"Do you hear him?" said the keeper, with a disagreeable smile; "he rates you handsomely. Come, lend him the twenty-five francs—eh!" The thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a storm ​gathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner, raised less by his own words than by the manner of the keeper. The latter, sure of quelling the tempest when the waves became too violent, allowed them to rise to a certain pitch, that he might be revenged on the importunate solicitor; and, besides, it would afford him some recreation during the long day.
The thieves had already approached Andrea, some screaming, "La savate!—La savate!"—a cruel operation, which consists in beating any comrade who may have fallen into disgrace, not with a wooden shoe, but with an iron-heeled one. Others proposed "the eel," another kind of recreation, in which a twisted handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles, and halfpence, when they have them, which the wretches discharge like a flail against the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer.
"Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!" said others.
But Andrea, turning toward them, winked his eyes, rolled his tongue round his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner equivalent to a hundred words among the bandits when forced to be silent. It was a masonic sign Caderousse had taught him. He was immediately recognized as one of them; the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled shoe replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged.
Some voices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; that he intended to be civil, in his way, and that they would set the example of liberty of conscience; and the mob retired. The keeper was so stupefied at this scene, that he took Andrea by the hands, and began searching him, attributing the sudden submission of the inmates of the "Lions' Den" to something more substantial than mere fascination.
Andrea made no resistance, though he protested against it. Suddenly a voice was heard at the wicket.
"Benedetto!" exclaimed an inspector. The keeper relaxed his hold.
"I am called," said Andrea.
"To the parlor!" said the same voice.
"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person!"
And Andrea, gliding through the court like a black shadow, rushed out through the wicket, leaving his comrades, and even the keeper, lost in wonder. Certainly a call to the parlor had scarcely astonished Andrea less than themselves; for the wily youth, instead of making use of his privilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La Force, had maintained a rigid silence.
"Everything," he said, "proves me to be under the protection of some powerful person: this sudden fortune, the facility with which I have ​overcome all obstacles; an unexpected family and an illustrious name awarded to me; gold showered down upon me, and the most splendid alliances promised to my ambition. An unhappy lapse of fortune and the absence of my protector have reduced me, certainly, but not for ever. The hand which has retreated for a while will be again stretched
forth to save me at the very moment when I shall think myself sinking into the abyss! Why should I risk an imprudent step? It might alienate my protector. He has two means of extricating me from this dilemma: the one by a mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other by buying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing until I am convinced that he has quite abandoned me; and then———"
​Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The unfortunate youth was intrepid in attack, and redoubtable in defense. He had borne with the public prison, and with privations of all sorts; still, by degrees, nature, or rather custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from being naked, dirty, and hungry; time went slow for him. It was at this moment of ennui that the inspector's voice called him to the visiting-room. Andrea felt his heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a visit from the juge d'instruction, and too late for one from the director of the prison, or the doctor;—it must, then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the grating of the room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his eyes dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M. Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon the iron bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which moved behind the other grating.
"Ah!" said Andrea, deeply affected.
"Good-morning, Benedetto," said Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.
"You—you!" said the young man, looking fearfully around him.
"Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?"
"Silence!—be silent!" said Andrea, who knew the delicate sense of hearing possessed by the walls; "for Heaven's sake, do not speak so loud!"
"You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?" said Bertuccio.
"Oh, yes!"
"That is well!"
And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom he saw through the window of the wicket.
"Read!" he said.
"What is that?" asked Andrea.
"An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there to talk with me."
"Oh!" cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally added, "Still my unknown protector! I am not forgotten. They wish for secrecy, since we are to converse in a private room. I understand Bertuccio has been sent by my protector."
The keeper spoke for a moment with a superior, then opened the iron gates, and conducted Andrea to a room on the first floor looking on the court. The room was whitewashed, as is the custom in prisons: but it looked quite brilliant to a prisoner, though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table, formed the whole of its sumptuous furniture.
Bertuccio sat down upon the chair; Andrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired.
"Now," said the steward, "what have you to tell me?"
​"And you?" said Andrea.
"You speak first."
"Oh, no! You must have much to tell me, since you have come to seek me."
"Well, be it so! You have continued your course of villainy; you have robbed—you have assassinated."
"Good! If you had me taken to a private room only to tell me this, you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know all these things. But there are some with which, on the contrary, I am not acquainted. "Let us talk of those, if you please. Who sent you?" ​"Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto!"
"Yes, and to the point! Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends you?"
"No one."
"How did you know I was in prison?"
"I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs Elysées."
"Oh, the Champs Elysées! Ah, ah! we burn, as they say at hide-and-seek. The Champs Elysées! Come, let us talk a little about my father!"
"Who, then, am I?"
"You, sir! you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume, who placed at my disposal one hundred thousand francs, which I spent in four or five months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in Paris—among the rest, with a certain procureur du roi, whose acquaintance I did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to me just now;—it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two millions, when the fatal discovery of the pot aux roses took place. Come, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!"
"What do you wish me to say?"
"I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs Elysées just now, worthy foster-father!"
"Well?"
"Well, in the Champs Elysées there resides a very rich gentleman."
"At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?"
"I believe I did."
"The Count of Monte-Cristo?"
"You have named him. Well, I am to rush into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, as Pixerecourt does in the dramas, 'My father! my father!'"
"Do not let us jest," gravely replied Bertuccio; "and dare not to utter that name again as you have pronounced it."
"Bah!" said Andrea, a little overcome by the solemnity of Bertuccio's manner, "why not?"
"Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by Heaven be the father of such a wretch as you!"
"Oh, these are fine words!"
"And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care!"
"Menaces!—I do not fear them. I will stay———"
​"Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?" said Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look that Andrea was moved to the very soul. "Do you think you have to do with galley-slaves, or simple dupes in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen
into terrible hands; they are ready to open for you—make use of them! Do not play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their movements." ​"My father—I will know who my father is!" said the obstinate youth; "I will perish if I must, but I will know it. What will scandal do to me? Why, good, fame, advertising, as the journalists say. You great people always lose something by scandal, notwithstanding your millions and coats of arms. Come, who is my father?"
"I came to tell you."
"Ah!" cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy.
Just then the door opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said:
"Excuse me, sir, but the juge d'instruction is waiting for the prisoner."
"And so closes our interview," said Andrea to the worthy steward; "I wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!"
"I will return to-morrow," said Bertuccio.
"Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns for me at the gate, that I may have some things I am in need of!"
"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio.
Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and merely jingled a few pieces of money.
"That's what I mean," said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio.
"Can I be deceived!" he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and grated vehicle which they call "the salad basket."
"Never mind, we shall see! Then, to-morrow!" he added, turning toward Bertuccio.
"To-morrow!" replied the steward.