CHAPTER XXII

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.