I sank on to an old chair. Sœur Léonide comforted me, and, trying to be cheerful, "Do you know that everybody is spoiling you!" she said. "Look at this fine, big cell, and you will be almost alone here."
She opened one of the windows. It was raining, and what I could see of the sky, through the bars and the trellis, was dull and grey. The sister pointed to the courtyard below: "Look," she said; "there are a few trees there. In the centre of the yard you can see the basin where the prisoners do their washing. And look at all the pigeons on the roofs. During the summer it is very nice here, you will see...."
I looked at the good sister. She understood... and added hastily: "Of course, of course, you won't be here then; I was only telling you...."
It was very cold and I shivered. Still, to look out of the windows was a change from gazing at four black walls, and wearily, unendingly, counting the tiles at my feet.
But Sœur Léonide gently pulled me back, and closed the window: "It is not wise for you to remain there. Some of the women below might see you, and they would insult you. Everybody in the prison knows you are here."
A sister entered the cell, pushing before her a young woman of about twenty-five, down whose sunken cheeks tears were streaming.
"She is going to be your companion," said Sœur Léonide, "she is a much nicer little woman than the others, and she is very unhappy; so, she will know how to console you."
"Why is she so unhappy? What has she done?..."
The girl herself replied. "I am here because I tried to steal three blouses from a shop. I wanted to make myself beautiful for my sweetheart. But, Madame, what do you think they have done? They have given me four months! Four months in prison, for three blouses. I shall never live here four months, and 'he' will have gone."
Poor girl! She was small and delicate; she had big brown eyes. She reminded me a little of Marthe.