Chapter Chapter 11 · Albert scarcely noticed his removal from home to the seclusion of the

prison. Snatched away from his painful thoughts by the harsh voice of

the commissary, saying. “In the name of the law I arrest you,” his

mind, completely upset, was a long time in recovering its equilibrium,

Everything that followed appeared to him to float indistinctly in a

thick mist, like those dream-scenes represented on the stage behind a

quadruple curtain of gauze.

To the questions put to him he replied, without knowing what he said.

Two police agents took hold of his arms, and helped him down the stairs.

He could not have walked down alone. His limbs, which bent beneath him,

refused their support. The only thing he understood of all that was said

around him was that the count had been struck with apoplexy; but even

that he soon forgot.

They lifted him into the cab, which was waiting in the court-yard at

the foot of the steps, rather ashamed at finding itself in such a

place; and they placed him on the back seat. Two police agents

installed themselves in front of him while a third mounted the box by

the side of the driver. During the drive, he did not at all realize his

situation. He lay perfectly motionless in the dirty, greasy vehicle.

His body, which followed every jolt, scarcely allayed by the worn-out

springs, rolled from one side to the other and his head oscillated on

his shoulders, as if the muscles of his neck were broken. He thought of

Widow Lerouge. He recalled her as she was when he went with his father

to La Jonchere. It was in the spring-time; and the hawthorn blossoms

scented the air. The old woman, in a white cap, stood at her garden

gate: she spoke beseechingly. The count looked sternly at her as he

listened, then, taking some gold from his purse, he gave it to her.

On arriving at their destination they lifted him out of the cab, the

same way as they had lifted him in at starting.

During the formality of entering his name in the jail-book in the

dingy, stinking record office, and whilst replying mechanically to

everything, he gave himself up with delight to recollections of Claire.

He went back to the time of the early days of their love, when he

doubted whether he would ever have the happiness of being loved by her

in return; when they used to meet at Mademoiselle Goello’s.

This old maid had a house on the left bank of the Seine furnished in

the most eccentric manner. On all the dining-room furniture, and on the

mantel-piece, were placed a dozen or fifteen stuffed dogs, of various

breeds, which together or successively had helped to cheer the maiden’s

lonely hours. She loved to relate stories of these pets whose affection

had never failed her. Some were grotesque, others horrible. One

especially, outrageously stuffed seemed ready to burst. How many times

he and Claire had laughed at it until the tears came!

The officials next began to search him. This crowning humiliation, these

rough hands passing all over his body brought him somewhat to himself,

and roused his anger. But it was already over; and they at once dragged

him along the dark corridors, over the filthy, slippery floor. They

opened a door, and pushed him into a small cell. He then heard them lock

and bolt the door.

He was a prisoner, and, in accordance with special orders, in solitary

confinement. He immediately felt a marked sensation of comfort. He was

alone.

No more stifled whispers, harsh voices, implacable questions, sounded

in his ears. A profound silence reigned around. It seemed to him that he

had forever escaped from society; and he rejoiced at it. He would have

felt relieved, had this even been the silence of the grave. His body,

as well as his mind, was weighed down with weariness. He wanted to

sit down, when he perceived a small bed, to the right, in front of the

grated window, which let in the little light there was. This bed was as

welcome to him as a plank would be to a drowning man. He threw himself

upon it, and lay down with delight; but he felt cold, so he unfolded

the coarse woollen coverlid, and wrapping it about him, was soon sound

asleep.

In the corridor, two detectives, one still young, the other rather old,

applied alternately their eyes and ears to the peep-hole in the door,

watching every movement of the prisoner; “What a fellow he is!” murmured

the younger officer. “If a man has no more nerve than that, he ought

to remain honest. He won’t care much about his looks the morning of his

execution, eh, M. Balan?”

“That depends,” replied the other. “We must wait and see. Lecoq told me

that he was a terrible rascal.”

“Ah! look he arranges his bed, and lies down. Can he be going to sleep?

That’s good! It’s the first time I ever saw such a thing.”

“It is because, comrade, you have only had dealings with the smaller

rogues. All rascals of position--and I have had to do with more than

one--are this sort. At the moment of arrest, they are incapable of

anything; their heart fails them; but they recover themselves next day.”

“Upon my word, one would say he has gone to sleep! What a joke!”

“I tell you, my friend,” added the old man, pointedly, “that nothing

is more natural. I am sure that, since the blow was struck, this young

fellow has hardly lived: his body has been all on fire. Now he knows

that his secret is out; and that quiets him.”

“Ha, ha! M. Balan, you are joking: you say that that quiets him?”

“Certainly. There is no greater punishment, remember, than anxiety;

everything is preferable. If you only possessed an income of ten

thousand francs, I would show you a way to prove this. I would tell you

to go to Hamburg and risk your entire fortune on one chance at rouge et

noir. You could relate to me, afterwards, what your feelings were while

the ball was rolling. It is, my boy, as though your brain was being torn

with pincers, as though molten lead was being poured into your bones, in

place of marrow. This anxiety is so strong, that one feels relieved, one

breathes again, even when one has lost. It is ruin; but then the anxiety

is over.”

“Really, M. Balan, one would think that you yourself had had just such

an experience.”

“Alas!” sighed the old detective, “it is to my love for the queen of

spades, my unhappy love, that you owe the honour of looking through

this peephole in my company. But this fellow will sleep for a couple of

hours, do not lose sight of him; I am going to smoke a cigarette in the

courtyard.”

Albert slept four hours. On awaking his head seemed clearer than it had

been ever since his interview with Noel. It was a terrible moment for

him, when, for the first time he became fully aware of his situation.

“Now, indeed,” said he, “I require all my courage.”

He longed to see some one, to speak, to be questioned, to explain. He

felt a desire to call out.

“But what good would that be?” he asked himself. “Some one will be

coming soon.” He looked for his watch, to see what time it was, and

found that they had taken it away. He felt this deeply; they were

treating him like the most abandoned of villains. He felt in his

pockets: they had all been carefully emptied. He thought now of his

personal appearance; and, getting up, he repaired as much as possible

the disorder of his toilet. He put his clothes in order, and dusted

them; he straightened his collar, and re-tied his cravat. Then pouring

a little water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face, bathing

his eyes which were greatly inflamed. Then he endeavoured to smooth his

beard and hair. He had no idea that four lynx eyes were fixed upon him

all the while.

“Good!” murmured the young detective: “see how our cock sticks up his

comb, and smooths his feathers!

“I told you,” put in Balan, “that he was only staggered. Hush! he is

speaking, I believe.”

But they neither surprised one of those disordered gestures nor one of

those incoherent speeches, which almost always escape from the feeble

when excited by fear, or from the imprudent ones who believe in the

discretion of their cells. One word alone, “honour,” reached the ears of

the two spies.

“These rascals of rank,” grumbled Balan, “always have this word in their

mouths. That which they most fear is the opinion of some dozen friends,

and several thousand strangers, who read the ‘Gazette des Tribunaux.’

They only think of their own heads later on.”

When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert before the investigating

magistrate, they found him seated on the side of his bed, his feet

pressed upon the iron rail, his elbows on his knees, and his head buried

in his hands. He rose, as they entered, and took a few steps towards

them; but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to speak. He

asked for a moment, and, turning towards the little table, he filled and

drank two large glassfuls of water in succession.

“I am ready!” he then said. And, with a firm step, he followed the

gendarmes along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.