We now returned to machinations for the purpose of entering the forbidden prison.  Aprons were handed us, not unlike a barber’s.  They were surgeons’ aprons, always worn by those of the establishment when on duty.  Might not then the barbers’ aprons be a tradition of the barber-surgeons?  I refrained from asking the question in that company.  The scheme was, that we should pass for Carabins—­such is the nickname of French students in chirurgery—­and in this quality demand admission.  The Cerberus of the prison grinned at the deceit, but wearied and amused by our importunities, he actually opened the quicket and admitted us.  There are two grated doors of this kind, one always locked whilst the other is opened.  In an instant we were in Pandemonium.

The buildings, which surrounded and formed the courts, evidently the oldest and strongest of Bicetre, harmonized in dinginess with the scene.  At every barred window, and these were numerous, about a dozen ruffianly heads were thrust together, to regard the chains of their companions.—­What a study of physiognomy!  The murderer’s scowl was there, by the side of the laughing countenance of the vagabond, whose shouts and jokes formed a kind of tenor to the muttered imprecations of the other.  Here and there was protruded the fine, open, high-fronted head,—­pale, striking, features, and dark looks, of some felon of intellect and natural superiority; whilst by his side, ignominy looked stupidly and maliciously on.  A handsome little fellow at one of the grates, was dressing his hair unconsciously with most agitated fingers, evidently affected by the scene.  Our question of “What are you in for?” aroused him.  “False signing a billet of twenty thousand francs,” replied he, with a shrug and a smile.  “And he, your neighbour?” asked we cautiously, concerning one of a fine, thoughtful, philosophic, and passionate countenance.  “Ha! you may ask—­he gave his mistress a potion, for the purpose of merely seducing her, and it turned out to be poison—­a carabin like yourselves.”  But these made no part of the chaine.

The convicts destined for this operation were kept in movement round a post in an adjoining court, and were shouting, rarely in intelligible language, to their companions.  Joy was the universal tone, and a sniveller ran imminent danger.  One poor fellow I remarked holding down his head, when he was saluted with a kick from him who followed, and the objurgation, Tu es forcat, toi, heim?—­“You a convict, and durst be sad.”  These men were all unmanacled.  Methought a general rush on their part both practicable and formidable.  One half must have perished, and the other half might have escaped.