An automobile took him with the messengers to the prison of St. Lazare, across silent and shadowy Paris. Only a few hooded street lamps were cutting with their sickly light the darkness of the streets. In the prison they were joined by other functionaries and many chiefs and officers who represented military justice. The condemned woman was still sleeping in her cell, ignorant of what was about to occur.
Those charged with awakening her, gloomy and timid, were marching in line through the corridors of the jail, bumping into one another in their nervous precipitation.
The door was opened. Under the regulation light Freya was on her bed, with closed eyes. Upon opening them and finding herself surrounded by men, her face was convulsed with terror.
"Courage, Freya!" said the prison warden. "The appeal for pardon has been denied."
"Courage, my daughter," added the priest of the establishment, starting the beginning of a discourse.
Her terror, due to the rude surprise of awakening with the brain still paralyzed, lasted but a few seconds. Upon collecting her thoughts, serenity returned to her face.
"I must die?" she asked. "The hour has already come?… Very well, then: let them shoot me. Here I am."
Some of the men turned their heads, and so averted their glance…. She had to get out of the bed in the presence of the two watchmen. This precaution was so that she might not attempt to take her life. She even asked the lawyer to remain in the cell as though in this way she wished to lessen the annoyance of dressing herself before strangers.
Upon reaching this passage in his letter, Ferragut realized the pity and admiration of the maître who had seen her preparing the last toilet of her life.
"Adorable creature! So beautiful!… She was born for love and luxury, yet was going to die, torn by bullets like a rude soldier…."