It was the crowded hour, when men leave offices and shops for a midday meal. But the public of these parts, accustomed to such comings and goings of prisoners and their jailors, paid no attention to this pitiful trio.
The prisoner seemed so overcome with emotion that, after uttering a long sigh like a death rattle, he sank, a dead weight, into the arms of his jailors.
They were forced to support him. They carried him to the courtyard of the Council of War. Some, whose curiosity was aroused by the unusual pallor of the prisoner, wished to follow, but the jailors closed the great doors of the courtyard.
Before leading him to his cell, they dumped their inanimate prisoner on a chair in the porter's lodge.... The porter brought vinegar. They rubbed Butler-Vinson's temples with it. A jailor slapped his hands. In vain! The prisoner showed no signs of life!
"You had better take him to his cell," advised the porter. "Perhaps he will come to his senses if laid on his palliasse? In any case, run for the medical officer."
The jailors, who could make nothing of their prisoner's mysterious condition, transported him to cell 27. They laid him on his palliasse.
"Lieutenant Servin?"
"Commandant?"
"Will you help me to reduce these papers to order? It is half-past eleven: I want to go to breakfast!"