“You are a Roumanian, I think,” I add, “and I am a Frenchman.”
“Frenchman? You are a Frenchman?”
And this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent.
One more bond between us.
The panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp I can examine my No. 11, to whom I shall be able to give a less arithmetical designation.
“No one can see us, nor hear us?” he asked in a half-stifled voice.
“No one.”
“The guard?”
“Asleep.”
My new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. I feel that he seeks a support. He understands he can depend on me. And he murmurs: