Here is the description of my prison: eight feet square; four walls of
granite, with a flagged pavement; on one side a kind of nook by way of
alcove, in which is thrown a bundle of straw, where the prisoner is
supposed to rest and sleep, dressed, winter, as in summer, in slight
linen clothing. Over my head, instead of curtains, a thick canopy of
cobwebs, hanging like tattered pennons. For the rest, no windows, not
even a ventilator; and only one door, where iron hides the wood. I
mistake; towards the top of the door there is a sort of window, or
rather an opening of nine inches square, crossed by a grating, and which
the turnkey can close at night. Outside, there is a long corridor
lighted and aired by means of narrow ventilators high in the wall. It is
divided into compartments of masonry, which communicate by a series of
doors; each of these compartments serves as an antichamber to a dungeon,
like mine. In these dungeons are confined felons condemned by the
Governor of the Prison to hard labour. The three first cells are kept
for prisoners under sentence of death, as being nearest to the goal,
therefore most convenient for the jailor. These dungeons are the only
remains of the ancient Bicêtre Castle, such as it was built in the
fifteenth century by the Cardinal of Winchester, he who caused Jeanne of
Arc to be burned. I overheard this description from some persons who
came to my den yesterday, to gratify their curiosity, and who stared at
me from a distance as at a wild beast in a menagerie. The turnkey
received five francs for the exhibition.
I have omitted to say that night and day there is a sentry on guard
outside the door of my cell; and I never raise my eyes towards the
square grating without encountering his eyes, open, and fixed on me.