When the jailer brought him his supper, he found him lying on his pallet, with his face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.

Ah, he was not hungry now!  Now that he was alone, he fed upon his own bitter thoughts.  He sank from a state of frenzy into one of stupefying despair, and vainly did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, and account for the dark cloud gathering about him; no loop-hole for escape did he discover.

The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he had nothing to count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on, but the measured tread of the patrol who came to relieve the sentinels.  He was wretched.

At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep, which was more wearisome than refreshing; from which he was startled by the rough voice of the jailer.

“Come, monsieur,” he said, “it is time for you to appear before the judge of instruction.”

He jumped up at once, and, without stopping to repair his disordered toilet, said: 

“Come on, quick!”

The constable remarked, as they walked along: 

“You are very fortunate in having your case brought before an honest man.”

He was right.

Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally free from false pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent possessed in an eminent degree all the qualities necessary for the delicate and difficult office of judge of instruction.

Perhaps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimes necessary for coming to a quick and just decision; but he possessed unwearying patience, which nothing could discourage.  He would cheerfully devote years to the examination of a case; he was even now engaged on a case of Belgian bank-notes, of which he did not collect all the threads, and solve the mystery, until after four years’ investigation.

Thus it was always to his office that they brought the endless lawsuits, half-finished inquests, and tangled cases.

This was the man before whom they were taking Prosper; and they were taking him by a difficult road.

He was escorted along a corridor, through a room full of policemen, down a narrow flight of steps, across a kind of cellar, and then up a steep staircase which seemed to have no terminus.

Finally he reached a long narrow galley, upon which opened many doors, bearing different numbers.

The custodian of the unhappy cashier stopped before one of these doors, and said: 

“Here we are; here your fate will be decided.”

At this remark, uttered in a tone of deep commiseration, Prosper could not refrain from shuddering.

It was only too true, that on the other side of this door was a man upon whose decision his freedom depended.

Summoning all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about to enter when the constable stopped him.

“Don’t be in such haste,” he said; “you must sit down here, and wait till your turn comes; then you will be called.”