ted me
from working for my escape but also from reading. He was troublesome,
ignorant, superstitious, a braggart, cowardly, and sometimes like a
madman. He would have had me cry, since fear made him weep, and he said
over and over again that this imprisonment would ruin his reputation. On
this count I reassured him with a sarcasm he did not understand. I told
him that his reputation was too well known to suffer anything from this
little misfortune, and he took that for a compliment. He would not
confess to being a miser, but I made him admit that if the Inquisitors
would give him a hundred sequins for every day of his imprisonment he
would gladly pass the rest of his life under the Leads.

He was a Talmudist, like all modern Jews, and he tried to make me believe
that he was very devout; but I once extracted a smile of approbation from
him by telling him that he would forswear Moses if the Pope would make
him a cardinal. As the son of a rabbi he was learned in all the
ceremonies of his religion, but like most men he considered the essence
of a religion to lie in its discipline and outward forms.

This Jew, who was extremely fat, passed three-quarters of his life in
bed; and though he often dozed in the daytime, he was annoyed at not
being able to sleep at night--all the more as he saw that I slept
excellently. He once took it into his head to wake me up as I was
enjoying my sleep.

"What do you want?" said I; "waking me up with a start like this."

"My dear fellow, I can't sleep a wink. Have compassion on me and let us
have a little talk."

"You scoundrel! You act thus and you dare to call yourself my friend! I
know your lack of sleep torments you, but if you again deprive me of the
only blessing I enjoy I will arise and strangle you."

I uttered these words in a kind of transport.

"Forgive me, for mercy's sake! and be sure that I will not trouble you
again."

It is possible that I should not have strangled him, but I was very much
tempted to do so. A prisoner who is happy enough to sleep soundly, all
the while he sleeps is no longer a captive, and feels no more the weight
of his chains. He ought to look upon the wretch who awakens him as a
guard who deprives him of his liberty, and makes him feel his misery once
more, since, awakening, he feels all his former woes. Furthermore, the
sleeping prisoner often dreams that he is free again, in like manner as
the wretch dying of hunger sees himself in dreams seated a