He next resumed the study of his book, and
did not go to bed until the lights were extinguished.
Lecoq knew well enough that during the night his eyes would not serve
him, but he trusted that his ears might prove of use, hoping that some
telltale word might escape the prisoner's lips during his restless
slumber. In this expectation he was disappointed. May tossed to and fro
upon his pallet; he sighed, and one might have thought he was sobbing,
but not a syllable escaped his lips. He remained in bed until very late
the next morning; but on hearing the bell sound the hour of breakfast,
eleven o'clock, he sprang from his couch with a bound, and after
capering about his cell for a few moments, began to sing, in a loud and
cheerful voice, the old ditty:
"Diogene!
Sous ton manteau, libre et content,
Je ris, je bois, sans gene--"
The prisoner did not stop singing until a keeper entered his cell
carrying his breakfast. The day now beginning differed in no respect
from the one that had preceded it, neither did the night. The same might
be said of the next day, and of those which followed. To sing, to eat,
to sleep, to attend to his hands and nails--such was the life led by
this so-called buffoon. His manner, which never varied, was that of a
naturally cheerful man terribly bored.
Such was the perfection of his acting that, after six days and nights
of constant surveillance, Lecoq had detected nothing decisive, nor
even surprising.
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