"To-morrow morning at five!" cried he. "I will fetch you half an hour
before." The door closed, and he was off.

It was now a few minutes past eight o'clock, and there were, therefore,
something short of nine hours of life left to me. I have heard that
Victor Hugo is an amiable and kindly disposed man, and I feel assured,
if he ever could have known the tortures he would have inflicted, he
would never have designed the terrible record entitled "Le Dernier Jour
d'un Condamne." I conclude it was designed as a sort of appeal against
death punishments. I doubt much of its efficacy in altering legislation,
while I feel assured, that if ever it fall in the way of one whose hours
are numbered, it must add indescribably to his misery.

When, how, or by whom my supper was served, I never knew. I can only
remember that a very sleepy waiter roused me out of a half-drowsy revery
about midnight, by asking if he were to remove the dishes, or let them
remain till morning. I bade him leave them, and me also, and when the
door was closed I sat down to my meal. It was cold and unappetizing. I
would have deemed it unwholesome, too, but I remembered that the poor
stomach it was destined for would never be called on to digest it, and
that for once I might transgress without the fear of dyspepsia. My case
was precisely that of the purseless traveller, who, we are told, can
sing before the robber, just as if want ever suggested melody, or that
being poor was a reason for song. So with me any excess was open to me
just because it was impossible!

"Still," thought I, "great criminals--and surely I am not as bad as
they--eat very heartily." And so I cut the tough fowl vigorously in two,
and placed half of it on my plate. I filled myself out a whole goblet of
wine, and drank it off. I repeated this, and felt better. I fell to now
with a will, and really made an excellent supper. There were some potted
sardines that I secretly resolved to have for my breakfast, when the
sudden thought flashed across me that I was never to breakfast any more.
I verily believe that I tasted in that one instant a whole life long of
agony and bitterness.

There was in my friendless, lone condition, my youth, the mild and
gentle traits of my nature, and my guileless simplicity, just that
combination of circumstances which would make my fate peculiarly
pathetic, and I imagined my countrymen standing beside the gravestone
and muttering "Poor Potts!" till I felt my