The morning after my return to my family, as I sat surrounded with my
girls, and endeavouring to make myself their playmate and companion,
certain officers of justice belonging to the supreme tribunal of the
city entered my apartment. They were sent, as they informed me, to
conduct me to prison. My blood at this intelligence mounted into my
face.
“To prison?” cried I--“wherefore?--what have I done?--I am no citizen
of your state. What is the charge against me? Lead me not to prison:
lead me to your chief magistrate!”
“You will be called up for examination, when his honour is at leisure
to hear you: in the mean time you must go to prison.”
“Do those who sent you know that I am a native and a gentleman of
France? They will be made to repent this insolence. Upon what pretence
do they dare to act thus?”
“You will please not to talk of insolence to us. If you do not demean
yourself quietly----”
“Silence, fellow!” answered I fiercely. “Lead the way!”
By this time the children, astonished at a scene so alarming and
unintelligible to them, began to express their terror in various ways.
Julia, who was ready to faint, occupied the attention of her mother.
The little Marguerite clung round my knees, and expressed her emotions
by shrieks and cries. To see her father about to be torn from her by
four strangers, the peculiarity of whose garb of office aggravated
the rudeness of their countenances and the peremptoriness of their
behaviour, was a spectacle which the affectionateness of her nature was
unable to endure.
“I will go with you presently,” said I to the officers. “See, how you
have terrified the children!”
“Nay, sir, if you will behave civilly, and make it worth our while, we
do not desire to hurry you.”
I was stung with the brutal assurance with which they thus set the
liberty of a few moments at a price to me. But I checked my impatience.
I felt that it would be both foolish and degrading to enter into
contention with such wretches. I turned from them proudly, and took my
child in my arms.
“I will not be long gone, my love!” said I. “These people have made a
mistake, and I shall soon be able to rectify it.”
“I fancy not,” muttered one of them surlily.
“They shall not take you away, papa; that they shall not! I will hold
you, and will not let you go!”
“You are a good girl, Marguerite! But I know best what is proper, and
you must not think to control me. The men will not do me any harm,
child; they dare not. Perhaps I shall be back to dinner, and mamma will
then tell me how good you have been.”
As I spoke, she looked steadfastly in my face; and then, flinging her
arms round my neck, cried, “Good-by, papa!” and burst into a flood of
tears.
I embraced the other children and their mother; and, saying to the
latter significantly, “Fear nothing; you know I have nothing to
fear!”--departed with my conductors.
The way to the citadel lay through the market-place. The scene was
already crowded; and I had the mortification to be led along as a
criminal, in the midst of a thousand gazing eyes and enquiring tongues.
New as every thing connected with my present situation was to me, I had
not anticipated this vexation. I was stung with shame and impatience.
“To my dungeon!” said I to my conductors sternly. “If you had shown
yourself better humoured,” cried the most brutal of them, “we would
have led you round by the back way.”
The master of the prison was somewhat less a savage than his officers.
He knew my person, and had heard of my wealth. “Does monsieur choose
the best apartment?” said he. “Any where that I can be alone!” answered
I hastily. He hesitated a moment. I looked in his face: “Oh, yes, you
will be paid!” He bowed, and showed me to a room.
I shut the door as he retired. What had happened to me was of little
importance in itself. The impertinence of bailiffs and thief-takers
is of no more real moment than the stinging of a gnat. But I was so
utterly unacquainted with scenes of this nature! The pride of rank
that swelled within me made every appearance of restraint galling to
my sense. From the instant I was able to write, man, no one, except
in the voluntary compact of military service, had ever said to me, Go
there! or, Do this! And now, was I to be directed by the very refuse
of the species? Was I to learn the prudence of not replying to their
insults? Was I to purchase, at a stipulated price, their patience and
forbearance?--I request the reader to pardon me for troubling him with
my noviciate feelings: I soon learned to understand the world--the
world of a prison--better!
But, what was of more importance, I was apprehended as a criminal:
I had been dragged a prisoner of justice through the streets of
Constance; I was, by and by, to be subjected to the interrogatories
of the municipal tribunal. I could scarcely credit my senses, that
such an indignity had happened to the blood of St. Leon. It is true,
I was innocent. I was conscious, whatever might be my imprudences
and offences towards my own family, that I had done nothing to merit
the animadversion of public justice. But this was of no consequence.
Nothing, in my opinion, could wipe away the disgrace of being
interrogated, examined! of having for an instant imputed to me the
possibility of being a criminal! I writhed under this dishonour, and
felt it as a severer attack than the question, which was comparatively
of ceremony and etiquette, that had oppressed me in my residence at
Dresden.
The next day, when I was brought up for examination, I had expected
to be the complainant, in demanding redress for the injury I had
sustained. But I was mistaken.
I entered the room haughtily, and with the air of a man that felt
himself aggrieved. Of this however the magistrate took no notice. “Do
you know, sir,” said I, “that I am a citizen and a gentleman of France?
Are you acquainted with the treatment I have experienced? Have you lent
your authority to that treatment?”
“Wait a few minutes,” replied he with an imperious tone, “and I shall
be at leisure to attend to you.”
I was silent. After the interval of nearly a quarter of an hour, he
resumed--
“You call yourself the count de St. Leon!”
“I do.”
“Perhaps, sir, you are uninformed of the purity with which justice is
administered in the city within whose jurisdiction you now stand. Our
state is a small one, and its magistrates are therefore enabled to
discharge the office of a parent, not only to its proper citizens, but
to all strangers that place themselves under its protection.”
“I remember, sir, that seven years ago, I and my wife and four
children, sick and unfriended, were upon the point of perishing with
hunger within the walls of this city!”--The fact I mentioned was wholly
foreign to the point with which I was at present concerned; but the
parading arrogance of the man brought it forcibly to my memory, and
wrung it from my lips.
“_Monsieur le comte_,” replied he, “you are petulant. It is not the
office of a state to feed the souls it contains; it could not do that
without making them slaves. Its proper concern is to maintain them in
that security and freedom of action, which may best enable them to
support themselves.”
I suppressed the emotions which the tone of this speech excited. I
was unwilling to enter into contention with a man whom I regarded as
inexpressibly my inferior.
“Is it,” cried I sternly, “a part of the justice you boast of, to drag
a man of rank and a stranger from his home, without any intimation of
the cause of his being so treated, and then, instead of investigating
immediately the charge against him, to send him to prison unheard?
I disdain to mention the behaviour of your officers: those things
naturally grow out of the abuses practised by their superiors.”
“The mode of our proceeding,” replied he, “depends upon the seriousness
of the crime imputed. If a man of distinction labours under a slight
accusation only, we then treat him with all proper forbearance and
respect. But, when he is suspected of a crime of more than ordinary
magnitude, that alters the case. The man who has ceased to respect
himself, must look for no respect from others.”
I was for a moment thunderstruck and speechless. At length fiercely I
cried, “Produce my accusers!”
“That is not the mode of proceeding in Constance. I have certain
questions to propound to you. When you have answered them, we shall see
what is to be done next.”
“Carry me before the prince-bishop of your city! If I am to be examined
further, let it be by your sovereign!”
“The prince-bishop, moved by the state of our affairs in matters of
religion, has been prevailed on to delegate his juridical authority.
I am the person to whom the cognisance of your business belongs; and
at certain times, aided by my assessors, have the power of life and
death within this city. You have had every indulgence to which you are
entitled, and it will be your wisdom to be no further refractory.”
“Propose your questions!”
“A person, apparently greatly advanced in years, arrived in the
autumn of last year at a miserable farm you at that time cultivated,
called the Cottage of the Lake. It is to him that my questions will
principally relate.”
I stood aghast. The words of the magistrate were most unwelcome sounds.
I remembered that the stranger had said to me, “When I am once buried,
speak of me, and, if possible, think of me no more.” I replied with
eagerness and alarm--
“Of that person I have nothing to say. Spare your questions: I have no
answer to return you!”
“What was his name?”
“I know not.”
“His country?”
“I cannot inform you.”
“It is understood that he died, or in some manner disappeared, while
under your protection. Yet in the registers of the church there is no
notice of that event. If he died, no application was made for the rites
of religion to him dying, or to his body when his spirit had deserted
it. You are required to answer, what became of him or his remains?”
“I have already told you, that from me you will obtain no information.”
“One question more, sir. Seven years ago, you tell me, you and your
family were perishing with hunger. Soon after, you removed from obscure
lodgings in this city to the cottage of the lake, and seemed to be
laudably employed in earning for yourself a scanty livelihood with
the labour of your hands. But within the last six months the scene is
wholly changed. You appear to have suddenly grown rich, and here, and
in other parts of Germany, have actually disbursed considerable sums.
Whence comes this change?”
The train of questions thus proposed to me, impelled me to a serious
reply.
“_Monsieur le juge_,” said I, “I am a stranger, a native of France, and
a man of rank in my own country. I have paid your state the compliment
of choosing it for my residence. I have expended my industry, I expend
my wealth among you. I have comported myself as a peaceable inhabitant.
No action of my life has brought scandal upon your state, or disturbed
the peace and tranquillity of your affairs. I cannot collect from
any thing you have said, that I have any accuser, or that any charge
has been alleged against me. Till that happens, I cannot fall under
your animadversion. I am a man of generous birth and honourable
sentiments. To myself and my own conscience only am I accountable for
my expenditure and my income. I disdain to answer to any tribunal on
earth an enquiry of this sort. And now, sir, in conclusion, what I
demand of you is, first, my liberty; and secondly, an ample reparation
for the interruption I have sustained, and the insults to which I have
causelessly been exposed.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” said the magistrate. “What you mention may
be the rule of administering justice in some states. They may decide,
if they think proper, that some open act, apparently of a criminal
description, must be alleged against a man, before he can become an
object of animadversion to the state. But in Constance, as I have
already told you, the government assumes to act the part of a parent
to its subjects. I sit here, not merely to investigate and examine
definite acts, but as a censor morum; and I should violate the oath
of my office, if I did not lend a vigilant attention to the behaviour
and conduct of every one within my jurisdiction. The city of Constance
requires that nothing immoral, licentious, or of suspicious character,
shall be transacted within its walls. Your proceedings have escaped
notice too long; much longer than they would have done but for your
late absence. In cases where what is committed is merely immoral or
licentious, we content ourselves with sending the offender out of our
walls. But your case is of a complicated nature. It has scandalised
all the inhabitants of our virtuous and religious city. Unless you
answer my enquiries, and give a clear and satisfactory account of your
wealth, I am bound to believe that there is something in the business
that will not bear the light. The coincidence of times obliges me to
connect the disappearance of your guest, and the sudden growth of your
fortune. This connection gives rise to the most alarming suspicions.
I have therefore to inform you that, unless you honourably clear up
these suspicions by the most ample communication, my duty directs me to
remand you to prison, and to assure you that you will not be liberated
thence till you have satisfied the whole of my interrogatories.”
“Think deliberately,” answered I, “of your decision before you form
it. Your prisons I despise; but I will not suffer my reputation and my
honour to be trifled with. I came before you willingly, though I could
easily have avoided doing so; because I was eager to clear my fame. I
expected accusers, and I knew I could confound accusation. But what is
this that you call justice? You put together circumstances in your own
mind: you form conjectures; and then, without information, accuser, or
oath, without the semblance of guilt, you condemn me to prison, and
expect to extort from me confession. In defect of articles of charge I
disdain to answer: the only return a man of honour should make to loose
conjectures and random calumnies is silence. I am descended from a race
of heroes, knights of the cross, and champions of France; and their
blood has not degenerated in my veins. I feel myself animated by the
soul of honour, and incapable of crime. I know my innocence, and I rest
upon it with confidence. Your vulgar citizens, habituated to none but
the groveling notions of traffic and barter, are not the peers of St.
Leon, nor able to comprehend the views and sentiments by which he is
guided.”
“You are mighty well-spoken, monsieur St. Leon,” replied the
magistrate, “and your words are big and sounding; but we know that the
devil can assume the form of an angel, and that the most infamous and
profligate character can pronounce with emphasis sentiments of the
purest virtue. You are pleased to decide that the presumptions against
you are nothing but calumnies. Is it nothing that, having received
a stranger and retained him with you for months, you endeavoured
to conceal this fact, and never suffered him to be seen by a human
creature? Is his final disappearance nothing? Is it nothing that,
supposing him to be dead, as he probably is, you denied to his remains
the rites of funeral, and refuse to tell what is become of the body?
Is it nothing that, upon the death of this stranger, you, who were
before in a state almost of penury, suddenly appear to be possessed of
unbounded riches? Where is the will of this stranger? In what archives
have you deposited the declaration of his wealth? Let me tell you,
sir, that these presumptions, which you call nothing, form a body of
circumstantial evidence that, in many countries, would have led you
to the scaffold as a murderer. But the laws of Constance, which you
audaciously revile, are the mildest in the universe. Here we never put
a man to death but on his own confession. We simply condemn him to
perpetual imprisonment, or until he makes a declaration of his guilt.
You refuse to declare the name or country of the man whom you are
suspected of murdering, and then have the assurance to boast that no
private accuser rises against you. No, sir, we know there can be no
private accuser, where the connections of the party can be successfully
concealed. But shall this concealment, which is an aggravation of the
murder, prove its security? In conclusion, you boast of your blood
and heroic sentiments, and rail at our citizens as shopkeepers and
merchants. Let me tell you, sir, shopkeepers and merchants though we
are, we should scorn to conduct ourselves in the obscure and suspicious
manner that you have done. And, now I have taken the trouble to refute
your flimsy pretences, which it was wholly unnecessary for me to do, I
have done with you. You know your destination, unless you are prepared
immediately to give a satisfactory account of yourself and your
proceedings.”
Finding it impossible to make on this man the impression I desired,
I declined entering into further parley; and, telling him that I
should convey a representation of my case to my native sovereign, and
did not doubt soon to make him feel the rashness of his proceeding,
I withdrew, in the custody of the officers who had conducted me to
the scene of audience. I was, I confess, struck with the coincidence
of circumstances, which the magistrate had placed in a fight equally
unexpected and forcible, and which I now saw calculated to subject me
to the most injurious suspicions. I was not disposed in the smallest
degree to yield to the attack, but I felt a desire to act deliberately
and with caution. The whole of what I had heard was utterly unforeseen,
and it was with peculiar anguish that I became aware of this new
consequence of the stranger’s pernicious donation. This was a
consequence that no resignation, no abjuration of his bequests could
cure; and that must be stood up to with manly courage, if any hope were
entertained of averting it.