One division of La Force, in which the most dangerous anddesperate prisoners are confined, is called the court ofSaint-Bernard. The prisoners, in their expressive language,have named it the "Lions' Den," probably because thecaptives possess teeth which frequently gnaw the bars, andsometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a prison;the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratingsare every day carefully examined by jailers, whose herculeanproportions and cold pitiless expression prove them to havebeen chosen to reign over their subjects for their superioractivity and intelligence. The court-yard of this quarter isenclosed by enormous walls, over which the sun glancesobliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf ofmoral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to beseen, - pacing to and fro from morning till night, pale,careworn, and haggard, like so many shadows, - the men whomjustice holds beneath the steel she is sharpening. There,crouched against the side of the wall which attracts andretains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes talking toone another, but more frequently alone, watching the door,which sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomyassemblage, or to throw in another outcast from society.

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartmentfor the reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, dividedby two upright gratings placed at a distance of three feetfrom one another to prevent a visitor from shaking handswith or passing anything to the prisoners. It is a wretched,damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when weconsider the agonizing conferences which have taken placebetween those iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spotmay be, it is looked upon as a kind of paradise by the menwhose days are numbered; it is so rare for them to leave theLions' Den for any other place than the barrierSaint-Jacques or the galleys!

In the court which we have attempted to describe, and fromwhich a damp vapor was rising, a young man with his hands inhis pockets, who had excited much curiosity among theinhabitants of the "Den," might be seen walking. The cut ofhis clothes would have made him pass for an elegant man, ifthose clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they didnot show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath thecareful hands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss inthe parts which were still perfect, for the wearer tried hisbest to make it assume the appearance of a new coat. Hebestowed the same attention upon the cambric front of ashirt, which had considerably changed in color since hisentrance into the prison, and he polished his varnishedboots with the corner of a handkerchief embroidered withinitials surmounted by a coronet. Some of the inmates of the"Lions' Den" were watching the operations of the prisoner'stoilet with considerable interest. "See, the prince ispluming himself," said one of the thieves. "He's a finelooking fellow," said another; "if he had only a comb andhair-grease, he'd take the shine off the gentlemen in whitekids."

"His coat looks almost new, and his boots shine like anigger's face. It's pleasant to have such well-dressedcomrades; 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 finestyle. And, then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!"Meanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approachedthe wicket, against which one of the keepers was leaning."Come, sir," he said, "lend me twenty francs; you will soonbe paid; you run no risks with me. Remember, I haverelations who possess more millions than you have deniers.Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty francs, so that I maybuy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to be in acoat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of theCavalcanti!" The keeper turned his back, and shrugged hisshoulders; he did not even laugh at what would have causedany one else to do so; he had heard so many utter the samethings, - indeed, he heard nothing else.

"Come," said Andrea, "you are a man void of compassion; I'llhave you turned out." This made the keeper turn around, andhe burst into a loud laugh. The prisoners then approachedand formed a circle. "I tell you that with that wretchedsum," continued Andrea, "I could obtain a coat, and a roomin which to receive the illustrious visitor I am dailyexpecting."

"Of course - of course," said the prisoners; - "any onecan 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 acomrade!"

"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 astorm gathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner,raised less by his own words than by the manner of thekeeper. The latter, sure of quelling the tempest when thewaves became too violent, allowed them to rise to a certainpitch that he might be revenged on the importunate Andrea,and besides it would afford him some recreation during thelong day. The thieves had already approached Andrea, somescreaming, "La savate - La savate!"* a cruel operation,which consists in cuffing a comrade who may have fallen intodisgrace, 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, andtwo-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretchesbeat like a flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappysufferer. "Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!" saidothers.

Savate: an old shoe.

But Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolledhis tongue around his cheeks, and smacked his lips in amanner equivalent to a hundred words among the bandits whenforced to be silent. It was a Masonic sign Caderousse hadtaught him. He was immediately recognized as one of them;the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled shoereplaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged. Somevoices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; thathe intended to be civil, in his way, and that they would setthe example of liberty of conscience, - and the mobretired. The keeper was so stupefied at this scene that hetook Andrea by the hands and began examining his person,attributing the sudden submission of the inmates of theLions' Den to something more substantial than merefascination. Andrea made no resistance, although heprotested against it. Suddenly a voice was heard at thewicket. "Benedetto!" exclaimed an inspector. The keeperrelaxed his hold. "I am called," said Andrea. "To thevisitors' room!" said the same voice.

"You see some one pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you willsee whether a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a commonperson!" And Andrea, gliding through the court like a blackshadow, rushed out through the wicket, leaving his comrades,and even the keeper, lost in wonder. Certainly a call to thevisitors' room had scarcely astonished Andrea less thanthemselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use of hisprivilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into LaForce, had maintained a rigid silence. "Everything," hesaid, "proves me to be under the protection of some powerfulperson, - this sudden fortune, the facility with which Ihave overcome all obstacles, an unexpected family and anillustrious name awarded to me, gold showered down upon me,and the most splendid alliances about to be entered into. Anunhappy lapse of fortune and the absence of my protectorhave cast me down, certainly, but not forever. The handwhich has retreated for a while will be again stretchedforth to save me at the very moment when I shall thinkmyself sinking into the abyss. Why should I risk animprudent step? It might alienate my protector. He has twomeans of extricating me from this dilemma, - the one by amysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other bybuying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothinguntil I am convinced that he has quite abandoned me, andthen" -

Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. Theunfortunate youth was intrepid in the attack, and rude inthe defence. He had borne with the public prison, and withprivations of all sorts; still, by degrees nature, or rathercustom, had prevailed, and he suffered from being naked,dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort thatthe inspector's voice called him to the visiting-room.Andrea felt his heart leap with joy. It was too soon for avisit from the examining magistrate, and too late for onefrom the director of the prison, or the doctor; it must,then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the grating of theroom into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his eyesdilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M.Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment uponthe iron bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which movedbehind 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 aroundhim.

"Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?"

"Silence, - be silent!" said Andrea, who knew the delicatesense 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?" saidBertuccio.

"Oh, yes."

"That is well." And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signedto 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 thereto talk to me."

"Oh," cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentallyadded, - "Still my unknown protector! I am not forgotten.They wish for secrecy, since we are to converse in a privateroom. I understand, Bertuccio has been sent by myprotector."

The keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then openedthe iron gates and conducted Andrea to a room on the firstfloor. The room was whitewashed, as is the custom inprisons, but it looked quite brilliant to a prisoner, thougha stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the whole of itssumptuous 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 cometo seek me."

"Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany;you have robbed - you have assassinated."

"Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private roomonly to tell me this, you might have saved yourself thetrouble. I know all these things. But there are some withwhich, on the contrary, I am not acquainted. Let us talk ofthose, 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 dandywho so gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say atthe game of pincette. The Champs Elysees? Come, let us talka 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 100,000 francs, which Ispent in four or five months; it was not you whomanufactured an Italian gentleman for my father; it was notyou who introduced me into the world, and had me invited toa certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating atthis moment, in company with the most distinguished peoplein Paris - amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whoseacquaintance I did very wrong not to cultivate, for he wouldhave been very useful to me just now; - it was not you, infact, who bailed me for one or two millions, when the fataldiscovery of my little secret took place. Come, speak, myworthy Corsican, speak!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs Elyseesjust now, worthy foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees there resides a very richgentleman."

"At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?"

"I believe I did."

"The Count of Monte Cristo?"

"'Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am Ito rush into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying,`My father, my father!' like Monsieur Pixerecourt."*

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied Bertuccio, "and darenot to utter that name again as you have pronounced it."

Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French dramatist (1775-1844).

"Bah," said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity ofBertuccio's manner, "why not?"

"Because the person who bears it is too highly favored byheaven to 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 say" -

"Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?"said Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast alook, that Andrea was moved to the very soul. "Do you thinkyou have to do with galley-slaves, or novices in the world?Benedetto, you are fallen into terrible hands; they areready to open for you - make use of them. Do not play withthe thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but whichthey can take up again instantly, if you attempt tointercept their movements."

"My father - I will know who my father is," said theobstinate youth; "I will perish if I must, but I will knowit. What does scandal signify to me? What possessions, whatreputation, what `pull,' as Beauchamp says, - have I? Yougreat people always lose something by scandal,notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?"

"I came to tell you."

"Ah," cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Justthen the door opened, and the jailer, addressing himself toBertuccio, said, - "Excuse me, sir, but the examiningmagistrate is waiting for the prisoner."

"And so closes our interview," said Andrea to the worthysteward; "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 afew crowns for me at the gate that I may have some things Iam in need of!"

"It shall be done," replied Bertuccio. Andrea extended hishand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and merelyjingled a few pieces of money. "That's what I mean," saidAndrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome by the strangetranquillity of Bertuccio. "Can I be deceived?" he murmured,as he stepped into the oblong and grated vehicle which theycall "the salad basket." "Never mind, we shall see!To-morrow, then!" he added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward.