and gay. Once more; what does he want?

Does he not find in prison good shelter, good bed, good food, good pay,
easy labor, and above all and before all, _a society to his taste_, a
society, let us repeat, which measures his merit by the magnitude of his
offenses?

A hardened criminal, then, knows neither poverty, hunger, nor cold. What
matters to him the horror he inspires in honest men? He does not see
them--he knows none.

His crimes are his glory, influence, and strength with the bandits among
whom he will henceforth pass his life. How can he fear shame?

Instead of grave and charitable remonstrances, which might force him to
blush and to repent, he hears savage plaudits, which encourage him to
robbery and murder, Scarcely imprisoned, he meditates new misdeeds. What is
more logical?

If he is discovered, arrested anew, he will find repose, the personal care
of the prison, and his joyous and bold companions in crime and debauchery.

Is his corruption less great than that of the others? does he manifest, on
the contrary, the slightest remorse that he is exposed to atrocious
railings, infernal shouts, terrible threats?

In fine--a thing so rare that it has become an exception to the
rule--should a condemned man come out of this frightful pandemonium with a
firm resolution to reform by prodigies of labor, courage, patience, and
honesty, and be able to conceal his past offenses, a meeting with one of