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.”