But what is he doing now? Well, he is seated on the bottom of his case
and placidly eating his supper by the light of a little lamp. A box of
preserves is on his knee, biscuit is not wanting, and in a little
cupboard I notice some full bottles, besides a rug and overcoat hooked
up on the wall.

Evidently No. 11 is quite at home. He is there in his cell like a snail
in his shell. His house goes with him; and he saves the thousand francs
it would have cost him to journey from Tiflis to Pekin, second-class. I
know he is committing a fraud, and that the law punishes such fraud. He
can come out of his box when he likes and take a walk in the van, or
even at night venture on the platform. No! I do not blame him, and when
I think of his being sent to the pretty Roumanian, I would willingly
take his place.

An idea occurs to me which may not perhaps be as good as it seems. That
is to rap lightly on the box so as to enter into communication with my
new companion, and learn who he is, and whence he comes, for I know
whither he goes. An ardent curiosity devours me, I must gratify it.
There are moments when a special correspondent is metamorphosed into a
daughter of Eve.

But how will the poor fellow take it? Very well, I am sure. I will tell
him that I am a Frenchman, and a Roumanian knows he can always trust a
Frenchman. I will offer him my services. I will propose to soften the
rigors of his imprisonment by my interviews, and to make up the
scarcity of his meals by little odds and ends. He will have nothing to
fear from my imprudences.