THE THREE CELLS
I awoke the next morning--in a cell. The women were still there. I felt
as if I had been beaten all over my body and my head. At first I did not
realise where I was, or what I was doing there.... I saw the slabs of
the floor, the dirt, the door with the peep-hole, through which, after
lifting a small wooden shutter, people from the outside could see what
was going on in the cell, the iron bedstead with the rough straw
mattresses, the pillow filled with dried sea-weed, and the sheets made
of some yellowish material that looked like sail-cloth. I saw the boards
fastened into the wall above each bed, the small stove, the heap of coal
in a corner, a few yellowish earthen-ware bowls and jugs, and blunt
knives on a rickety table. I saw the walls covered with tar, vermin
crawling about the cracks and hollows in the slabs, around the little
puddles of muddy, evil-smelling water, the rough-hewn, uneven joists of
the dark ceiling, from which hung thick webs. (Saint-Lazare, I heard
afterwards, is one of the oldest and most dilapidated prisons in
France.) I saw the two windows, with their heavy iron bars, and thick
wire-gauze--through which, later on, I found it so difficult to give
some of my bread to the scores of sparrows and pigeons which nest in the
old roofs of Saint-Lazare--and I knew that I was a prisoner.
But what did it matter! In less than a week everything would be arranged
and definitely settled, the real murderers would be arrested, and I
would be once more with my daughter! Meanwhile, it was horrible to be
here, to be in prison! I thought of Marthe, of my father... and I cried.
The women watched me eagerly. They addressed me by my name.... How did
they know who I was?
"Oh!" said one, "we know all we want. Newspapers are not allowed here,
but when you have a nice counsel, he hands some to you secretly....
Besides, new batches of women arrive every day, women who have just been
arrested.... They know the latest news, and when they walk round the
yard you can hear them talk."
The noise of steps outside, of the key being turned twice, and of the
bolts being drawn--a noise which I was to hear so many times a day
during a whole year, but which always jarred painfully on my
nerves--interrupted the woman's explanations.
The man with the fair, pointed beard and the stern expression whom I had
seen on my arrival at Saint-Lazare, entered, followed by the Sister who
had given me the sheets, and whom I will henceforth call by her name,
Sister Léonide. The two women jumped up and said: "Good morning,
_Monsieur le Directeur_."
He turned to me, and in a matter-of-fact tone asked: "Are you satisfied?
Is there anything you want, Madame?"
"Oh, yes!... I want to see my daughter."
He made no answer to that, but said: "Your counsel will no doubt come to
see you to-day," and walked away.
"How stupid of you," said one of the women to me; "you might have
obtained anything. For the Director to call on you like that, early in
the morning, it must be a political crime." (This remark amazed me.)
"You should have asked for another stove, this one draws badly, or for
an extra blanket...." And both started telling me what I should ask for
the next time the Director came, so that our cell should be comfortable.
The door opened again. A young Sister, with a healthy glow on her round
cheeks, came in.
"What do you want to-day, Madame?" she asked.
I could not understand. "She is Sister Ange," I was told; "she is the
Canteen Sister." Still I did not understand.
One of the women explained: "Sister Ange fetches what the prisoner
orders at the canteen.... You can ask for bread, for a pennyworth of
milk, or two pennyworth of coffee--anything."
"What shall I prepare the coffee in?" I asked.
"They bring it up already prepared, of course!" and my two companions
burst into endless and noisy laughter.
"Excuse me, forgive me," I said; "I didn't know...."
The Sister gently explained; "Yes, the coffee is already prepared.... It
is not very good, but you can warm it up on the little stove here...."
I gave her some coppers and asked for some coffee and milk.
"Do you want a large or a small jug?" I did not answer. Everything
seemed so strange, so abnormal. Sister Ange continued: "I will bring you
a small stone bowl--you can eat everything in that--and a spoon.... No,
no, forks are not allowed in prison. But you can have a small knife,
blunt, of course...."
I asked if I could buy some bread.
"You are entitled to bread, Madame. You will receive half a _boule_ of
brown bread every day." When I tried a piece of the prison bread that
day, I found two black beetles in it and gave a cry... much to the two
women's amusement. They told me that was quite a usual thing.
I duly received the coffee, but it was well-nigh undrinkable. Four
months later, after M. André had completed the _Instruction_
(examination of the accused and all the witnesses: M. André replaced M.
Leydet as magistrate in charge of my case, for the latter, ill and worn,
had asked to be relieved of the painful duty of interrogating a lady
whom he had known for many years), I begged to be allowed to prepare my
own coffee, for it was almost the only thing I managed to take. Ground
coffee was supplied to me, and I made a strainer with two bits of
firewood sticks, some wire taken from my hat (during the drives to the
Palace of Justice for the _Instruction_), and a piece from one of my
handkerchiefs.
My companions cleaned the cell, and I helped them. We lit the fire,
arranged our beds, and breakfasted. Then they began to chat, and I heard
who they were.
One was Alba Ghirelli, a dark woman of about forty, stout, with bulging
eyes and thick lips, who had been recently sentenced at Versailles to
six months' imprisonment, but had appealed, and had been brought to
Paris pending a new trial.
The name of the other was Rosselli. She was much younger and
kinder-looking, and had blue eyes and light brown hair. She had been
accused of fraud, and was awaiting her trial. (I may add that three
weeks afterwards she was sentenced to one year's imprisonment, but was
almost immediately released.) At the end of December the appeal of Alba
Ghirelli was heard, and she, too, was released.--I mention these facts
because, as the reader will realise a little later, they have an
important and pitiful connection with my own case.
A gong rang three times. Ghirelli and Rosselli exclaimed: "That's Sister
Léonide.... She is in charge of the 'reserved' cells" (_pistoles_).
"What are they?" I asked.
They laughed again. "Why, this is a reserved cell. You have to pay 7
francs 50 (six shillings) a month to be in a cell like this. They are
the best to be had. In each of the others there are twelve prisoners. In
these there are only five beds."
Sister Léonide came in.
"Your counsel is downstairs," she announced. "Come, please." On the way
she said: "In future, you will be known as 'Number 16170,' but as it is
difficult to remember, we will call you '61.' When you hear the gong
strike once and you hear some one shout '61,' that will mean that you
are wanted; then I, or another sister, will open the door of your cell
and take you to your counsel, or to the Director...."
She spoke very firmly, but there was a glow of warmth and kindness in
her eyes.
"_Ma Soeur_," I said, "must I remain with those women? It is dreadful
for me. Can't I be alone in a cell?"
"My poor child," she replied, in her big, gruff voice that sounded just
like that of a man, "you must not think of that. They will never leave
you by yourself. It is against the rules.... In a fit of despondency you
might.... Well, well, don't look so disappointed. I will talk the matter
over with the Sister Superior and the Director, and see what can be
done."
Sister Léonide walked near me. She was probably old, but had a very
young face and rosy cheeks.... We went through the long passages which
had frightened me the night before. The place was filthy and
dilapidated. It looked worse than ever in the daylight.... Women, we met
here and there, stopped to watch me, and they whispered: "That's the
Steinheil woman!" My heart beat so fast that it hurt me, and I had a
lump in my throat. Oh! The horror, the strain of being here. I thought
of Marthe....
At the top of a flight of steps, Sister Léonide said: "Go down. You will
come to a door. Knock and a gaoler will open it for you."
The word gaoler made me shudder. I thought: "I am a prisoner... a
prisoner! But Couillard and Wolff are in prison too; perhaps they are
not guilty, but they know something, and they will have to confess."
The gaoler bluntly asked: "Who are you?"
I remembered my lesson: "I am '61,'" I replied.
The man looked like an old soldier, with his rough, wrinkled, and tanned
face, and his martial appearance. "Ah! yes"... he mumbled, "I know,
'61.' It is your counsel who has come."
I entered the parlour. What a dreary place, dark and cold.... There was
a huge wide table there, with chairs all round it. On one side I saw
Maître Aubin, and M. Steinhardt, his secretary. The gaoler pointed out a
chair to me, opposite my counsel, and said: "Sit down there."
The two counsel were very pale.
"Ah! why did you not follow my advice!" Aubin began.... "If only you had
not written that letter to the Press, if only you had not started the
case again!..." Every sentence began with the word "if."
"Have Couillard and Wolff spoken? Is the truth discovered yet?" I asked.
"Spoken!... They are doing nothing but speaking. People carry them about
shoulder high; they are the heroes of the day. The newspapers are
singing their praises!..."
I was dumbfounded: "What do you say!... It is impossible. Are they not
in prison?"
"They were both set free yesterday...."
"Then they are going to release me too. You said I would be with Marthe
in a week's time. They don't want me anymore, do they?... But now we
shall never know the truth!... When can I go away from here?"
The two men looked at each other. They hesitated.... I could read in
their faces that some terrible news was coming.
I could not wait.... "What is the matter? Speak, Maître Aubin." The poor
man halted, and then at last said: "You must be brave.... You must
remain here.... Oh! why did you put that pearl in your valet's
pocket-book. You don't know the anger of the Public against you.... You
would be torn to pieces if you walked through a street."
"How long shall I have to remain in prison? You said a week. Will it be
two weeks? Three weeks?"...
"I don't know...."
"What! A whole month?"
"More."
"Surely not! Two months?... Three whole months?"
"I don't know. I swear to you that I don't know. I would rather tell you
the worst at once than slowly torture you, but I simply cannot. You will
have to be examined by a judge; it will take a long time. Weeks, months,
may elapse.... But you longed to know the truth.... Well, there will be
a thorough investigation now; you will know everything. I will help
you...."
It was as though I had received a stunning blow on the head.... I
reeled. Several weeks, several months, perhaps!...
My head fell forward, and I sobbed.
They made me promise to try to eat. They called the gaoler, and said
"She must eat," and the man went to the canteen and fetched a plateful
of boiled potatoes.... Maître Aubin's last words were: "We shall have to
talk together, to work, a great deal... but you may rely upon it: the
murderers will be found."
I returned to my cell. There, Ghirelli and Rosselli overwhelmed me with
questions, and showed much irritation when I declined to answer.... I
had bought from the canteen some paper and ink, and I started writing to
my relatives.
The gong! Once! Then a voice shouted "Sixty One." It was for me. Sister
Léonide entered and said: "Your daughter is here."
My daughter!... My God! Marthe was going to see me! I must not look so
unhappy.... "_Ma Soeur_, tell me, can one see that I have cried?"
I was led to the Director's study. The Director was there, seated near a
window.... Then I saw Marthe, with M. Chabrier.... She rushed into my
arms, and for a long while, we wept and were both unable to speak. The
Director, M. Pons, said: "You can only be together for a quarter of an
hour."
I asked Marthe what had happened to her since the previous evening.
"After leaving you, mother, I drove home, and found there a journalist
from the _Paris-Journal_, who when I had told him that I was exhausted
and that he should have pity on me, shook me by my hand and went away
without a word.
"At ten o'clock, three _Matin_ men arrived, de Labruyère, Barby and
Bourse. They were less considerate. They refused to go, and started
making me all kinds of offers. One said to me: 'The _Matin_ will give
you 30,000 francs (£1200), will give even more than that if you will
tell us all you know!' I said I knew nothing and had nothing to say.
They then began to ask me questions: 'Confess it is your mother who
committed the double murder! Come, confess it. You know everything; tell
us the truth'... I grew so angry that they tried something else: 'Who is
it, then?' they asked. 'M. Buisson? Mariette? Wolff? Geoffroy?
Couillard, after all?' They mentioned the name of every person we know
who comes to our house.... I was alone with de Labruyère and Barby.
Bourse was in the next room keeping the Chabriers from joining me. I did
not answer their idiotic questions. I repeated that I knew nothing....
Then they grew reckless, and gave their ugly scheme away: 'Well, beware:
You are going to see your mother at Saint-Lazare; we shall be waiting
there, and we shall take you in a motor-car to a place in the country.
We shall keep you there until you speak. You will see.... To-morrow....'
They went away banging the doors.
"I have come, mother, with M. Chabrier and M. Hutin, who said he would
protect me. I didn't see any one, but I wonder how I shall reach home."
At that moment some one came to say that there was a great crowd
outside, that the police were powerless, that he didn't see how they
would get Mlle. Steinheil away.
The prison-treasurer (_économe_), who was present, said: "She will have
to leave by the door through which she came. There is no other way out."
"You don't want this child to be mobbed, do you?" said the Director; and
he gave some instructions.
(I heard afterwards that there had been a serious altercation, passing
from words to blows, between M. Hutin and M. Barby of the _Matin_,
because the former's taxi had been allowed to enter the prison, to the
unspeakable rage of the latter, who had the _Matin_ car in readiness,
and hoped to kidnap Marthe. M. Hutin's taxi, with my daughter in it, was
taken through various courtyards inside the prison to the alley leading
to the so-called _porte des condamnés_ (the door through which prisoners
sentenced to death were taken to the guillotine). The old gate had not
been opened for a long time, and it was difficult to open it; but at
last it was thrown open, and the taxi, carrying Marthe, M. Chabrier, and
M. Hutin, sped out of the prison into the square.... The crowd was
surging outside the main entrance. When they saw the taxi, and realised
that Marthe was in it, it was too late. Marthe reached the Impasse
Ronsin safely, thanks to M. Hutin, whom, when I heard of his kindness to
my daughter, I almost forgave his conduct towards me on the so-called
"Night of the Confession.")
From that day the _Matin_ hardly ever troubled my daughter.
* * * * *
I thanked the Director for what he had done for my child, and also for
having allowed me to see her, not in the parlour, but in his study.
"Yes," he said, in his usual earnest manner, "you ought to be satisfied.
Think of the unfortunate women here who have to see their children, not
even in the parlour across a table, but through two gates, between which
a gaoler is sitting!... By the way, the doctor will see you often, and
you must tell him if you are ill. There are remedies in our dispensary."
I always found M. Pons a very strict but admirably just director.
I was led back to my cell; I could hardly walk and when I reached it I
sank on my bed.
The thought of having to remain in prison three months perhaps, drove me
mad. Ghirelli and Rosselli spoke to me. They wanted to know what had
happened.... Poor women! News, whatever it is, however sad, breaks the
monotony of life in a prison cell.... But I was more dead than alive,
and remained on my bed, crying and thinking of Marthe.
Towards the evening some one came to tell me that a pastor had come to
see me. I put on my jacket. Outside the Boulevard des Pistoles--"the
boulevard of the cells"--a hand touched my arm, and a kind voice said:
"My poor friend. I don't know you, but I know your family. I have read
the newspapers, I heard you were here.... I am Pastor Arboux. I visit
regularly the Protestant prisoners here and in other prisons. I have
done so for the past twenty years.... How you must have suffered. Come
with me! we will talk together, and we will pray."
I followed him up a few steps to a small chapel which contained a few
chairs, a kind of desk with a Bible on it. I looked at the pastor, and
found him a tall, strong man of about sixty, with a small grey beard,
large kind eyes and refined features.
"You have seen your daughter," said M. Arboux. "That must have given you
much courage. What a brave little girl she must be.... I hope you have a
good counsel."... Then he asked me a few questions. I answered them, and
he concluded: "I feel you are innocent. I have always thought so."
"Innocent of what?" I said.... "I am not innocent; don't you know that I
put the pearl in Couillard's pocket-book?"
"The pearl? The pearl?..." He looked almost frightened.... "The pearl?
You mean to say your counsel has told you that you are here on account
of that!"
"No, Maître Aubin has told me nothing. He only said that I would be kept
here for two or three months; he didn't know."
Deeply affected, M. Arboux then said: "Let us pray! Kneel down, my poor
woman!"
He knelt beside me and he prayed: "Oh God, Thou who hast allowed my
sister here to lose her reason and do an act of injustice, forgive her,
and give her the courage to bear everything, even the awful truth...."
He stopped, and I waited for some dreadful revelation....
The pastor, making a great effort, then added in a broken voice: "Give
her the strength to hear... that she is accused of a terrible crime."
"A crime! What crime!..." I seized his hands.... "tell me everything....
I am accused of having..."
"Yes, of having..."
I interrupted him: "Don't say it! Good God!..." And then I said it
myself: "They believe I have strangled my mother and my husband...." And
I fell forward, rocking and moaning in my grief and horror.
The pastor lifted me on to a chair: "Yes... that is why I came here
to-night. I half thought that you might not know, and I thought you
would suffer a little less if it were an old pastor who broke the awful
news to you.... I have witnessed so much misery."
After a long while, when there were no more tears left to shed, he again
tried to comfort me: "Be brave, perhaps the criminals will be found.
There will be a thorough, a searching _Instruction_. The truth will out,
sooner or later.... It will be a terrible trial to you, to be in this
prison, awaiting the decision of the judges, but you must not lose
heart. You must expiate past faults.... Try to forget the brilliant
world where you have lived all these years.... Every week I will come to
you, and we will pray to Him who has all powers. Believe me: it is not
human beings who will give you the courage to remain here and to live,
and to hope."
He took the Bible on the desk, placed it in my hands, saying: "Here is
the old, old book; it has consoled the worst afflicted. I will see you
every week, as often as my other duties will allow."
Pastor Arboux kept his promise, in a sublime manner. He gave me the
courage to live, and reconciled me to this world. During the endless
year of mental and physical agony, he came to see me twice a week, every
Thursday and every Sunday, and remained each time at least one hour. He
came even when he was ill or overwhelmed with work. During the summer of
1909, he took a well-earned three weeks' holiday, but even then, he came
to Paris to give me the consolation which he knew I so sorely needed.
M. Arboux asked me: "What sort of women are those two in your cell?"
"It is terrible for me to be with them; they quarrel constantly, and
they keep asking me questions. I refuse to speak to them, but sometimes,
they are so pressing that I reply, but I am so ill, so tired, so
miserable...."
"Try not to reply at all," said M. Arboux. "I will talk to the
Director."
In spite of the pastor's kind words, I spent the night weeping and
lamenting. I, Marguerite Steinheil-Japy, to be accused of murder,
accused of having strangled my husband and my mother! How could such a
monstrous charge have been brought against me! It was maddening....
The next day, Saturday, November 26th--no one came to see me, and the
day seemed endless.
Another sleepless night followed, and then another day began, a Sunday!
Seated on my bed, I wept bitterly. The two women again asked me
questions, but during the afternoon, Sister Léonide entered and said to
me: "Take your things. You are going into another cell." Later, in
January, when the _Matin_ published statements made by Ghirelli and
Rosselli concerning a "full confession" which I was supposed to have
made in their cell, the Director of the Saint-Lazare prison, sent a
report to Judge André, in which he says, concerning my change of cell:
"... That Mme. Steinheil was taken from cell No. 15, and placed in cell
No. 11.... On Sunday November 29th, 1908, in the afternoon, because of
a paragraph in the _Matin_ of November 28th, which gave the number of
Mme. Steinheil's cell and the names of her companions. The indiscretion,
it appears from the newspapers, was made by Maître Camille Dreyfus,
counsel of the prisoner called Rosselli."
(_Dossier_ Cote 3021)
* * * * *
Soeur Léonide led me to a cell much larger and lighter than the other,
but in the same dirty dilapidated state. It contained seven beds, and
had two windows, not only heavily barred, but also fitted with iron
trellis-work. The windows were of ground glass, so that it was
impossible to see outside, except when they were open. One had to listen
to the rain and to "guess" if the sun shone, when they were shut.
I sank on to an old chair. Soeur Léonide comforted me, and, trying to
be cheerful, "Do you know that everybody is spoiling you!" she said.
"Look at this fine, big cell, and you will be almost alone here."
She opened one of the windows. It was raining, and what I could see of
the sky, through the bars and the trellis, was dull and grey. The sister
pointed to the courtyard below: "Look," she said; "there are a few trees
there. In the centre of the yard you can see the basin where the
prisoners do their washing. And look at all the pigeons on the roofs.
During the summer it is very nice here, you will see...."
I looked at the good sister. She understood... and added hastily: "Of
course, of course, you won't be here then; I was only telling you...."
It was very cold and I shivered. Still, to look out of the windows was a
change from gazing at four black walls, and wearily, unendingly,
counting the tiles at my feet.
But Soeur Léonide gently pulled me back, and closed the window: "It is
not wise for you to remain there. Some of the women below might see you,
and they would insult you. Everybody in the prison knows you are here."
A sister entered the cell, pushing before her a young woman of about
twenty-five, down whose sunken cheeks tears were streaming.
"She is going to be your companion," said Soeur Léonide, "she is a
much nicer little woman than the others, and she is very unhappy; so,
she will know how to console you."
"Why is she so unhappy? What has she done?..."
The girl herself replied. "I am here because I tried to steal three
blouses from a shop. I wanted to make myself beautiful for my
sweetheart. But, Madame, what do you think they have done? They have
given me four months! Four months in prison, for three blouses. I shall
never live here four months, and 'he' will have gone."
Poor girl! She was small and delicate; she had big brown eyes. She
reminded me a little of Marthe.
"What is your name?" I asked her.
"Firmin."
"Well, Firmin, we must try to comfort each other."
Sister Léonide left us together. The dreadful noise of the key and bolt,
again.
Firmin was sobbing, and, seeing her in that state, I forgot my grief,
for a while.... She told me all the horrible things the other
women-prisoners said among themselves, and she said: "I am so thankful
to M. Desmoulin for having sent me to this cell."
"Who is M. Desmoulin?" I asked.
"He is a man who visits prisoners, but not a priest or a pastor.... They
say he is a painter.... He goes about the prison as he pleases. He is
here to-day. I'd have died long ago, if it had not been for him. Ah!
think of it, I am in prison! What will my parents say? They don't know
anything yet...." And she burst out sobbing. Poor Firmin!
We heard a noise, voices, and then a gentleman came in, fairly tall,
with a grey beard and moustache, and the appearance of an artist. He
must have been about fifty-five.
He chatted with Firmin for a short while, near the door. I heard him
say: "You must do all you can for her." He looked in my direction and
said: "Have courage, Madame," then went away.
"That was M. Desmoulin," said Firmin.
Night fell early.
"I am going to light the fire," said my companion. "And then, the Sister
told me I was to make you eat something."
Firmin lit the fire, helped me to undress, for I was terribly weak, put
me to bed and forced me to swallow some milk.
But I could not sleep. Firmin then exclaimed, "I have a bit of candle!"
"Are there no lamps, then?"
"No, Madame, but I have a candle. I bought it. I have no money, but I
sew, I work to make money. You must sew all day to earn very little, and
of course, to work at night you need a candle, don't you!"
She started to sew, near my bed, and I helped her.... Then suddenly, I
heard the masculine voice of Sister Léonide shouting: "Will you be
quiet, all of you? I shall call the warders.... I tell you she is not
here!"
Heavy objects, by the score, were thrown against the door of my cell;
and the most abominable insults were hurled at me. There rose hysterical
screams of "Murderess! assassin! The guillotine is too good for you! We
know you are there! Death to you! The guillotine!"
Firmin held both my hands and trembled like a leaf. "It is dreadful,
Madame, don't listen!"
"What are they throwing at the door?"
"Their wooden shoes, and anything they can lay their hands on, I
suppose...."
Then, abruptly, the noise outside the door ceased, but it started again
almost immediately, behind one of the walls, where apparently a whole
gang of prisoners were lodged. For a while, they shouted obscenities,
and the vilest insults were once more hurled at me: "Murderess! You
strangled your own mother, you killed your own husband.... If we had you
here, we would gouge your eyes out, tear you to shreds, you
assassin!"....
And all the time those demons hit the wall and tried to smash it, piece
by piece.
Cold perspiration bathed my temples. Firmin was livid, and fell near me,
on my bed. We held each other's hands. Firmin said: "Don't pay any
attention, Madame. I have heard much worse than that. Here, upstairs,
they are almost quiet; the women are awaiting their trial, but
downstairs, where I was, there are the condemned women. If you knew how
they insulted and beat me when they heard I was going upstairs, to this
cell, and when they found out, somehow, that I would be with you!"
I could hardly hear what she said, so terrific was the noise in the next
cell.
Then the noise ceased.... The Sisters were coming.... But as soon as the
round had passed, the din began afresh, and the insults and the threats
were even worse than before.... Firmin and I, in despair, forced paper
into our ears, and getting into our beds, we covered our heads not only
with our blankets, but with our clothes. Still I could hear those
women.... Yet another sleepless night, yet another night of terror and
agony!
The next day I heard the gong, and then a voice shouted that number
"Sixty-one," to which I was already getting used. It was Marthe. For
half an hour we remained together and every second new life returned to
my bruised body, and hope to my aching heart. How brave the darling was,
how she tried to keep back her tears so as not to make me more miserable
than I already was.... And then my counsel came, and the pastor....
I begged the latter to intercede in my favour. It was impossible for me
to go on like this. I felt, especially after all the shocks I had
suffered during the past few months, that I would go mad if I had to go
through many more such nights as the last.
"I'll see," said M. Arboux. "But it would not be fair if an exception
were made in your favour."
I spent three more days and three more nights in Cell No. 11, and night
and day I heard insults. When, for some cause or other, the women went
through the corridor, they raised the shutter of the peep-hole in my
door and let loose a torrent of abuse. Then Firmin and I would stand
against the wall on one side of the door, so that we could not be seen.
At night another prisoner joined us. She was Marie Jacq, a Breton woman
of forty, who had been recently sentenced to two years, and had before
that served seven terms of imprisonment. Jacq was employed all day as a
kind of charwoman; she entered the cell at 8 P.M. to sleep, and left it
at 6 A.M. She seemed to have but one craving, the poor wretch--drink.
At night, since sleep was out of the question, I had no option but to
think and think, and wearily through the long hours I tried to thrash
out and see clearly all the details of the strange and terrible drama
which had claimed two victims, and was like to soon claim a third, for I
felt that life was ebbing from my limbs.
Then one morning dear Sister Léonide came and told me, "You are going to
change your cell once more. I have instructions to take you to No. 12.
There you will have on one side your former cell, and on the other a
lumber room. You will at last be able to breathe--and sleep."
Firmin shared this new cell with me, and Jacq, who had spent the nights
in Cell No. 13, then in Cell No. 11 when I was there, joined us at night
in No. 12. She had instructions to assist me--and watch over me.