ved 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 unha