We were not in the open air for long: a carriage was waiting for us—it was the same which had brought me here; it was oblong in shape, and divided into two compartments by iron bars standing so closely together that they appeared to be interlaced. Each section had a door, one in front, and one behind. The vehicle was so dirty and dusty, that the hearse which conveys paupers to their last resting-place is a state carriage in comparison to this one. Before burying myself in this tomb, I cast one glance round the courtyard, one of those despairing looks before which walls should crumble. There were many spectators waiting for my departure, more than there had been to look at the galley-slaves. As on that day a light rain was falling, and would no doubt fall all day—the shower would last longer than I should. The roads were much cut up, and the courtyard full of dirt and water. It was pleasant to see the crowd tramping about in the mud. We got into the carriage—the usher and the soldiers in front; the priest, a policeman, and myself in the hindmost compartment. Four mounted gendarmes surrounded the carriage; thus, without counting the driver, there were eight men to guard one poor wretch. As I got in I heard an old woman say, “Well, for my part I prefer _that_ to the galley-slaves’ chain.” I understood her—the sight was simpler, more easy to be taken in at a glance. The carriage started; I heard the echoing sound as it rolled under the main portal of the Bicêtre, whose heavy gates closed behind us. I felt stupefied, like a man who has fallen into a trance, who can neither stir nor cry out, though he knows that they are burying him alive. I listened dreamily to the jingle of the bells in the horses’ collars, the rolling of the wheels, and the cadenced trot of the escort’s horses, and the crack of the driver’s whip. It seemed as if I was being carried away in a whirlwind. Through the bars of a window in front of me my eyes caught an inscription in large letters over the Bicêtre—_Hospital for the Aged_. “Ha!” exclaimed I, “it appears then that _some_ people do grow old there.” All at once the vehicle made a sudden turn, which changed the scene. Now I saw the towers of Notre Dame rising through the mist of Paris. “Those who have a place in the tower where the flagstaff is will have a good view,” thought I. I think that it was about this time that the priest began talking again. I let him go on without interruption; my ears were filled with the noise of the wheels, the horses’ hoofs, and the coachman’s whip—what mattered a little more noise? I listened then to this flow of words, which soothed my feelings, like the murmur of falling water, when the sharp voice of the usher broke the silence. “Well, Abbé,” exclaimed he, “what news have you to-day?” The chaplain, who had never ceased talking to me, made no reply. “_Hé, hé!_” resumed the usher, raising his voice to drown the sound of the wheels, “what an infernal carriage this is!”