On the other side is the trench of a street; and in its extended hollow are the bright points of some windows and the radiance of a shop.

With my face between the bars of the gate, I look on this reflection of the other life; then I go back to the black staircase, the corridor and the dormitory, I who am something and yet am nothing, like a drop of water in a river.
* * * * * * We stretch ourselves on straw, in thin blankets.

I go to sleep with my head on the bundle of my civilian clothes.

In the morning I find myself again and throw off a long dream--all at once impenetrable.
My neighbor, sitting on his straw with his hair over his nose, is occupied in scratching his feet.

He yawns into tears, and says to me, "I've dreamt about myself." * * * * * * Several days followed each other.