This painful audience had lasted three hours. Julien summoned the porter.
“Go and install Julien Sorel in cell No. 103,” said the abbé Pirard to the man.
As a great favour he let Julien have a place all to himself. “Carry his box there,” he added.
Julien lowered his eyes, and recognised his box just in front of him. He had been looking at it for three hours and had not recognised it.
As he arrived at No. 103, which was a little room eight feet square on the top story of the house, Julien noticed that it looked out on to the ramparts, and he perceived beyond them the pretty plain which the Doubs divides from the town.
“What a charming view!” exclaimed Julien. In speaking like this he did not feel what the words actually expressed. The violent sensations which he had experienced during the short time that he had been at Besançon had absolutely exhausted his strength. He sat down near the window on the one wooden chair in the cell, and fell at once into a profound sleep. He did not hear either the supper bell or the bell for benediction. They had forgotten him. When the first rays of the sun woke him up the following morning, he found himself lying on the floor.