This formality is necessary, so that by and
by he may not pretend that the dust has been changed."
The governor complied with the request, and as he placed this "bit
of proof" (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe keeping, the
prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering laugh. Still, beneath
this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could detect poignant anxiety.
Chance owed him the compensation of this slight triumph; for previous
events had deceived all his calculations.
The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he was ordered
to undress, and to exchange his soiled and bloodstained garments for
the clothing furnished by the Government. Not a muscle of his face moved
while he submitted his person to one of those ignominous examinations
which make the blood rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal. It was
with perfect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair
and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to make sure
that he had not concealed either some fragment of glass, by the aid
of which captives can sever the strongest bars, or one of those
microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they
exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called "postilions."
These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for
one of the keepers. "Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells," he
ordered.
There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked out, as he had
entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he
is going.
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