Thus, when a prison van turns to the left in this yard, it has brought prisoners to be examined to the “mousetrap”; when it turns to the right, it conveys prisoners committed for trial, to the Conciergerie.  Now it was to the right that the vehicle turned which conveyed Jacques Collin to set him down at the prison gate.  Nothing can be more sinister.  Prisoners and visitors see two barred gates of wrought iron, with a space between them of about six feet.  These are never both opened at once, and through them everything is so cautiously scrutinized that persons who have a visiting ticket pass the permit through the bars before the key grinds in the lock.  The examining judges, or even the supreme judges, are not admitted without being identified.  Imagine, then, the chances of communications or escape!  —­The governor of the Conciergerie would smile with an expression on his lips that would freeze the mere suggestion in the most daring of romancers who defy probability.

In all the annals of the Conciergerie no escape has been known but that of Lavalette; but the certain fact of august connivance, now amply proven, if it does not detract from the wife’s devotion, certainly diminished the risk of failure.

The most ardent lover of the marvelous, judging on the spot of the nature of the difficulties, must admit that at all times the obstacles must have been, as they still are, insurmountable.  No words can do justice to the strength of the walls and vaulting; they must be seen.

Though the pavement of the yard is on a lower level than that of the quay, in crossing this Barbican you go down several steps to enter an immense vaulted hall, with solid walls graced with magnificent columns.  This hall abuts on the Tour de Montgomery—­which is now part of the governor’s residence—­and on the Tour d’Argent, serving as a dormitory for the warders, or porters, or turnkeys, as you may prefer to call them.  The number of the officials is less than might be supposed; there are but twenty; their sleeping quarters, like their beds, are in no respect different from those of the pistoles or private cells.  The name pistole originated, no doubt, in the fact that the prisoners formerly paid a pistole (about ten francs) a week for this accommodation, its bareness resembling that of the empty garrets in which great men in poverty begin their career in Paris.

To the left, in the vast entrance hall, sits the Governor of the Conciergerie, in a sort of office constructed of glass panes, where he and his clerk keep the prison-registers.  Here the prisoners for examination, or committed for trial, have their names entered with a full description, and are then searched.  The question of their lodging is also settled, this depending on the prisoner’s means.

Opposite the entrance to this hall there is a glass door.  This opens into a parlor where the prisoner’s relations and his counsel may speak with him across a double grating of wood.  The parlor window opens on to the prison yard, the inner court where prisoners committed for trial take air and exercise at certain fixed hours.