With that, the door closed, and François marched off cheerfully with his jailers to another cell in which he was to spend the three hours of life that remained to him. The cell was much larger and brighter than the one he had left, but cold and damp, in spite of the May heat and the fiercely burning city.
Of this, François complained bitterly.
“What do you mean,” he said, “by putting me in this place where I shall be certain to catch cold?”
The jailer, who had a rudimentary sense of humor, grinned at this.
“I have heard a good many condemned persons grumble at their fate, but you are the first one I have seen who is afraid of catching cold three hours before he is introduced to a firing squad.”
“My friend,” replied François, “I am a gentleman, although somewhat in eclipse, and I want a fire made in this place, because I wish to be comfortable as long as I live.”
The jailer, still laughing, opened the door and called to a colleague, who brought a brazier and some charcoal, of which François secured several lumps.
“I feel in the vein for poetry,” he said, “and I wish to write some verses on this wall.”
While the jailer made a little fire in the brazier, François stood in meditation before the whitewashed wall, writing a few words, then rubbing them out with his sleeve, sometimes finishing a whole line with many corrections, just as poets usually do.
He was so absorbed in his composition that an hour passed, and he was surprised by the jailer bringing in supper at five o’clock. The jailer, who was more and more disposed to be friendly with his prisoner, laughed at the way in which François drew up his stool, surveyed the rude fare, and turned up his nose at it.