In the prison ward I was moved like a child by the sight of a litter of kittens playing on a convict’s bed.  He made them little paper balls, and they would chase them all over the bed-spread, and cling to its edges with their claws.  Then he would turn them over, stroke them, kiss them and cuddle them to his heart.  More than once, when he is put back to work and sits tired and depressed on his bench, he will dream of the quiet hours he spent alone with the little animals, and of the softness of their fur on his rough hands and the warmth of their little bodies against his breast.  I believe, though, that the rules forbid this kind of recreation and that probably he had them through the kindness of the sister in charge.

But here, as well as elsewhere, rules have their exceptions, for, in the first place, the distinction of caste does not disappear (equality being a lie, even in the penitentiary).  Delicately scented locks sometimes show beneath the numbered caps, just as the sleeve of the red blouse often reveals a cuff surrounding a well-kept hand.  Moreover, special favours are shown toward certain professions, certain men.  How have they been able, in spite of the law and the jealousy of their fellow-prisoners, to attain this eccentric position which makes them almost amateur convicts, and keep it without anybody trying to wrest it from them?  At the entrance to the workshop, where boats are built, you will find a dentist’s table filled with instruments.  In a pretty frame on the wall, rows of plates are exhibited, and when you pass, the artist utters a little speech to advertise his ability.  He stays in his place all day, polishing his instruments and stringing teeth; he can talk to visitors without feeling the restraint of being watched, be informed of what is going on in the medical world, and practise his profession like a licensed dentist.  At the present time, I daresay, he must use ether.  More than that, he may have pupils and give lectures.  But the man who has the most enviable position of all is the cure Delacollonge.[3] He is the mediator between the convicts and the ban; the authorities use his ascendency over the prisoners, and they, in turn, address themselves to him when they want to obtain any favours.

He lives apart from the rest of them in a neat little room, has a man to wait on him, eats big bowls of Plougastel strawberries, takes his coffee and reads the newspapers.

If Delacollonge is the head of the penitentiary, Ambroise is its arm.  Ambroise is a superb negro almost six feet tall, who would have made a fine servant for a sixteenth century man of quality.  Heliogobalus must have kept some such fellow to furnish amusement for himself and his guests by strangling lions and fighting gladiators single-handed.  His polished skin is quite black, with steely reflections; his body is well knit and as vigorous as a tiger’s, and his teeth are so white that they almost frighten one.