"What is your name?" I asked her.
"Firmin."
"Well, Firmin, we must try to comfort each other."
Sister Léonide left us together. The dreadful noise of the key and bolt, again.
Firmin was sobbing, and, seeing her in that state, I forgot my grief, for a while.... She told me all the horrible things the other women-prisoners said among themselves, and she said: "I am so thankful to M. Desmoulin for having sent me to this cell."
"Who is M. Desmoulin?" I asked.
"He is a man who visits prisoners, but not a priest or a pastor.... They say he is a painter.... He goes about the prison as he pleases. He is here to-day. I'd have died long ago, if it had not been for him. Ah! think of it, I am in prison! What will my parents say? They don't know anything yet...." And she burst out sobbing. Poor Firmin!
We heard a noise, voices, and then a gentleman came in, fairly tall, with a grey beard and moustache, and the appearance of an artist. He must have been about fifty-five.
He chatted with Firmin for a short while, near the door. I heard him say: "You must do all you can for her." He looked in my direction and said: "Have courage, Madame," then went away.
"That was M. Desmoulin," said Firmin.