"Well, we can see that on the prison register, _citoyen_. Nothing will be easier, if the registrar is still here. Let me ascertain through the watchman. Would you care to follow me? Just wait a moment; I have not the keys." Collas went back into his lodge, and returned with a bunch of keys. Then, taking down a lantern from the wall, he commenced threading the mazy alleys of the Conciergerie, followed by the Incorruptible. It was the first time Robespierre had entered this prison in which so many of his victims had been immured. The two men turned into the old banqueting hall of the Kings of France, a long gallery with a vaulted ceiling of oval arches supported on massive pillars; keeping to the left, they came upon an iron trellised gate, which the turnkey opened. Robespierre found himself in a railed enclosure, a kind of antechamber leading to another vaulted gallery, which in the dim light seemed of indefinite length. Two towering gates on the left opened into a court on which the moon shone, lighting up vividly a pile of buildings surrounded with grey arcades. As Robespierre and the turnkey advanced they came upon a man sleeping in a chair, with a lantern at his feet. It was the night watchman. "Hallo, Barassin!" called the turnkey, shaking his bunch of keys in his ears. The man woke with a start. At the mention of Robespierre he rose in a tremor of fear at being caught slumbering on duty. He excused himself profusely--he had been so hard-worked this last month; there was no sleeping at all with the cart-loads of prisoners coming at every moment. Then, with officious zeal, he invited Robespierre to remain with him while Collas went to ascertain if the registrar was still there, though this was very unlikely at that late hour. The turnkey went on his errand. "What part of the prison is this?" asked Robespierre, looking around. "We are between the two gates, _citoyen_. Have you never been to the Conciergerie before?" "No; never." Now was his chance! Barassin had a subject to interest the Incorruptible, and he launched forth into a long description, overcrowded with details. On the other side of that little door to the right was the ward of the male prisoners. Here at the end was the women's courtyard, facing the arched building in which were their cells. Robespierre had but to advance a little, and he could see through the gate the fountain in which they washed their linen, for they remained dainty to the last, and wished to ascend the scaffold in spotless clothes. Barassin laughed a loud brutish laugh, happy at the seeming interest Robespierre took in his explanations. "Is the Recorder's office on the left, then?" questioned the Incorruptible, his eyes fixed on the dark gallery through which the turnkey had disappeared. Barassin began another string of details. Yes, that gallery led to it, and to the exit as well, through the concierge's lodge, where the condemned had their hair cut after the roll-call.