Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 253: The Lions’ Den: I

Inside La Force prison, there was a special section that even hardened criminals feared. The other inmates called it the "Lions’ Den", a fitting name, since the men caged there had teeth sharp enough to gnaw through iron bars, and sometimes even their guards.

This wasn’t just any prison cell. The walls were twice as thick as the rest of the building, and guards checked every grating daily with obsessive care. The guards themselves looked like they’d been selected for their intimidating size and complete lack of compassion. Their cold eyes and muscular frames made it clear they ruled this domain through strength and cunning.

The courtyard was surrounded by massive walls that blocked out most of the sunlight. Only occasional rays managed to penetrate this pit of human misery. Throughout the day, pale and haunted figures paced back and forth across the stone pavement like restless ghosts. These were men waiting for justice’s blade to fall.

They huddled against the walls that retained the most heat, sometimes talking in low voices, but more often alone, eyes fixed on the door. That door would occasionally swing open to summon someone to their fate, or to throw in a fresh outcast from society.

The visitor’s area matched the courtyard’s grim atmosphere. It was a long rectangular room divided by two iron gratings placed three feet apart, far enough to prevent any physical contact or exchange of objects between prisoners and their guests. The space was damp and wretched, made worse by the agonizing conversations that echoed between those metal bars. Yet to the condemned men of the Lions’ Den, this horrible room seemed like paradise. After all, they rarely left their cells for anywhere except the execution grounds or the galleys.

On this particular day, a young man had become the talk of the Den. He walked around the misty courtyard with his hands in his pockets, drawing curious stares from every direction.

His clothes would have marked him as a gentleman in any other setting, though now they were torn and ragged. Despite the damage, they didn’t look worn out. The prisoner kept trying to smooth out the wrinkles and restore their shine, treating even the scraps of fine fabric with careful attention. He paid the same meticulous care to his dirty shirt front and even polished his scuffed boots with an embroidered handkerchief that bore a monogram topped with a crown.

Some of the other inmates watched his grooming routine with amusement.

"Look at the prince, preening himself," one thief commented.

"He’s a good-looking fellow," another added. "Give him a comb and some hair oil, and he’d outshine those rich boys in their fancy white gloves."

"His coat looks almost brand new, and those boots are polished like mirrors. Nice to have such well-dressed company! But damn, those officers who arrested him must’ve been jealous, tearing up clothes like that!"

"He looks like a real big shot," someone else chimed in. "Dresses in style too. And so young! What a waste!"

Meanwhile, the object of this crude admiration approached the gate where a guard was leaning.

"Come now, sir," the young man said smoothly, "lend me twenty francs. You’ll be repaid soon enough, I’m not exactly a risk. I have relatives who possess more millions than you have pennies. Please, just twenty francs so I can buy a proper dressing gown. It’s unbearable always wearing the same coat and boots! And what a coat for a prince of the Cavalcanti family!"

The guard turned his back and shrugged, not even bothering to laugh at what would have made anyone else chuckle. He’d heard this song and dance too many times before.

"Fine," Andrea said. "You’re completely heartless. I’ll have you fired."

This made the guard turn around and burst out laughing. The other prisoners gathered closer, forming a circle.

"I’m telling you," Andrea continued, "with that pathetic sum, I could get proper clothes and a room suitable for receiving the important visitor I’m expecting any day now."

"Of course, of course," the prisoners muttered. "Anyone can see he’s a gentleman!"

"Well then, lend him the twenty francs yourself," the guard said, leaning on his other shoulder. "Surely you won’t refuse a fellow inmate?"

"I am not a fellow inmate of these people," the young man replied proudly. "You have no right to insult me like this."

The thieves exchanged dark glances and low mutters. A storm was brewing around the aristocratic prisoner, provoked less by his words than by the guard’s attitude. The guard, confident he could quell any riot once it got too violent, let it build to a certain point. It would teach the annoying Andrea a lesson and provide some entertainment during another long day.

The thieves closed in on Andrea. Some were already shouting, "La savate! La savate!", a cruel punishment where they’d beat him with iron-heeled shoes. Others suggested "the eel," another brutal game involving a handkerchief filled with sand, pebbles, and coins, swung like a flail at the victim’s head and shoulders.

"Let’s whip this fancy gentleman!" others called out.

But Andrea turned to face them and made a peculiar gesture, winking, rolling his tongue against his cheeks, and smacking his lips in a specific pattern. Among criminals forced into silence, this sequence meant as much as a hundred spoken words. It was a secret sign that Caderousse had taught him.

The recognition was immediate. The handkerchief was dropped. The iron-heeled shoe went back on its owner’s foot.

"The gentleman’s alright," several voices said. "He means to be civil in his own way. Let’s show him we respect freedom of choice."

The mob backed off, and the guard stood there stunned. He grabbed Andrea and started patting him down, convinced the sudden submission had to be caused by something more substantial than mere recognition. Andrea didn’t resist, though he protested the search.

Suddenly, a voice called from the gate, "Benedetto!"

The guard relaxed his grip.

"I’m being called," Andrea said.

"To the visitor’s room!" the voice repeated.

"You see?" Andrea said smugly. "Someone’s come to visit me. My dear sir, you’re about to learn that a Cavalcanti is not to be treated like a common criminal!"

Andrea slipped through the courtyard like a shadow and rushed through the gate, leaving his fellow prisoners and even the guard speechless with surprise.