Fandor walked up and down the hall of the prison. He had informed the warders that he was waiting for the magistrate. "How strange life is!" thought he. "To think that once again I should be brought into close contact with Elizabeth Dollon, and that there is no likelihood of her recognising me--we were such children when we parted--she especially! Had she any recollection of the little rascal I was at the time of poor Madame de Langrune's assassination?" And, closing his eyes, Fandor tried to call to mind the features of the Jacques Dollon he used to know: it was useless! The body of Jacques Dollon he would be gazing at in a few minutes would be that of an unknown person, whose name alone awakened memories of bygone days.... So to pass the time Fandor continued his marching up and down. Monsieur Fuselier appeared at the entrance to the Depot, supporting the unsteady steps of poor Elizabeth Dollon. Fandor quickly drew back into an obscure corner: "Better not attract attention to myself just at present," thought Fandor; "I will wait until the cell door is opened. If Fuselier does not wish to give me permission to remain, I can at any rate cast a rapid glance round that ill-omened little cell!" Fandor followed, at a distance, the wavering steps of the poor girl whom Monsieur Fuselier was supporting with fatherly care. When they paused before one of the cells pointed out by the head warder, Monsieur Fuselier turned to Elizabeth Dollon: "Do you think you are strong enough to bear this trial, mademoiselle?... You are determined to see your brother?" Elizabeth bent her head; the magistrate turned towards the warder: "Open," said he. As the key was turned in the lock he said: "According to instructions from the Head, we have placed him on his bed again.... There is nothing to frighten you ... he seems to be asleep.... Now then!" But as he opened the door, stretching his arm in the direction of the bed where the body of Jacques Dollon should be, an oath escaped him: "Great Heavens! The dead man is gone!" In this cell with its bare walls, its sole furniture an iron bedstead and a stool riveted to the floor, in this little cell which the eye could glance round in a second, there was no vestige of a corpse: Jacques Dollon's body was not there! "You have mistaken the cell," said the magistrate sharply. "No, no!" cried the astounded warder. "You can see, can't you, that Jacques Dollon is not there?" "He was there a few minutes ago!" "Then they must have taken him somewhere else!" "The keys have never left me!" "Oh, come now!" "No, sir. He was there ... now he isn't there! That's all I know!... Hey! You down there!" yelled the warder: "Who knows what has become of the corpse of cell 12?... The corpse we laid out just now?"