Just as I had finished reading, _the gens d'armes_ entered my room,
and, with the officers of justice, led me away to prison. I walked
mechanically. I was conducted to a small building in the centre of a
square. This was a _cachot_, with an iron-grated window on each of
its four sides, but without glass. There was no bench, or table, or
anything but the bare walls and the pavement. The wind blew sharply
through. I had not even a great-coat; but I felt no cold or personal
inconvenience, for my mind was too much occupied by superior misery.
The door closed on me, and I heard the bolts turn. There was not an
observation made on either part, and I was left to myself.
"Well," said I, "Fate has now done its worst, and Fortune will be
weary at last of tormenting a wretch that she can sink no lower! Death
has no terrors for me; and, after death--!" But, even in my misery,
I scarcely gave a thought to what might happen in futurity. It
might occasionally have obtruded itself on my mind, but was quickly
dismissed: I had adopted the atheistical creed of the French
Revolution.
"Death is eternal sleep, and the sooner I go to sleep the better!"
thought I. The only point that pressed itself on my mind was the dread
of a public execution. This my pride revolted at; for pride had again
returned, and resumed its empire, even in my _cachot_.
As the day dawned, the noise of the carts and country people coming
into the square with their produce, roused me from my reverie, for I
had not slept.
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