The Lions' Den.
One 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 for their superior activity and intelligence.The court-yard of this quarter is enclosed 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 to and fro 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 apartment for the reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, 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 agonizing conferences which have taken place between those iron bars.And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is looked upon as a kind of paradise by 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 or the galleys!
In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp vapor was rising, a young man with his hands in his pockets, who had excited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the "Den," might be seen walking.The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an elegant man, if those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they did not show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the careful hands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were still perfect, for the wearer tried his best 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 pluming himself," said one of the thieves."He's a fine looking fellow," said another; "if he had only a comb and hair-grease, he'd take the shine off the gentlemen in white kids.""His coat looks almost new, and his boots shine like a nigger's face.It's pleasant to have such well-dressed comrades; but didn't those gendarmes behave shameful? --must 'a been jealous, to tear such clothes!""He looks like a big-bug," said another; "dresses in fine style.And, then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!"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'll have you turned out." This made the keeper turn around, 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.""Of course -- of course," said the prisoners; -- "any one can see he's 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."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 Andrea, 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 cuffing a comrade who may have fallen into disgrace, not with an old shoe, but with an iron-heeled one.
Others proposed the "anguille," another kind of recreation, in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles, and two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches beat like a flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer."Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!" said others.
* Savate: an old shoe.
