The cell was dark， and even during the day the narrow slit of a
window near the ceiling gave just enough light to let them make
out each other s darkened features.
It had been that way from the first. When the heavy steel door
had swung open， the light from the comdor had blinded Auguste
and he had not been able to see the face of the man who was
pushed inside.
You can always tell French prisons
been the first words Auguste had heard h
accented French.
the stink. Those had
sneak in his Corsican-
\"You re lucky you arrived when you did，\" Auguste had said.
\"They just emptied the piss bucket. Later it gets worse.\"
They remained together for over two months in the dark
sweating stench-ridden hole， talking about their homeland， their
beliefs， their friends and families back in Corsica; everything
except the actions， committed separately， that now brought them
together. Often they spoke about women， because doing so made
it easier to be without them. Sartene spoke of his wife .back in
Corsica， of their first meeting， their formal courtship and the
birth of their son. He spoke more with a sense of reverence than
passion， but in his words it could be seen that passion had been
there as well. For Auguste the conversation was different. There
was no wife， only the available women of Marseille and Bastia
and the other seaport towns and cities that had taken up his
youth.
Together they fought off the loneliness and despair with their
words. And with their hands and feet they fought the rats that
came out to compete for the dry meat and tasteless soup that was
20
pushed through the narrow opening at the bottom of the cell do
each evening. Sartene said there were five rats， insisting he ha
learned to distinguish them by the sound of their movements al
methods of attack. The smallest and most devious he had nam~
Napoleon， recalling that the king of Austria had once called tl
French emperor a Corsican gutter rat and had then given him h
daughter for a bride.
Sartene s knowledge of military history had amazed Augus
at first; his discussions of battles and strategies seemed endles
Auguste had not been sure if the stories were accurate， but t
had listened to them and discussed them， fascinated， like a sma
child hearing Bible stories told by nuns. And he had grown 1
respect the man s quiet sense of dignity. Despite the misery
the cell， he had never heard Sartene complain， other than expres~
ing his contempt for French authority. He had simply accepte
what had been forced upon him with the knowledge that he ha
[O en~
une 2
tem. \"
ing their way with their hands， stumbling on the stone stairs that
led up to even brighter light. Ten minutes passed before their
eyes began to focus， the pain that had seared them fading into a
mild throbbing in their temples. They were in a large stone-
walled room， furnished only with a long writing table and a chair
placed behind it. A French officer stood next to the chair， but
they ignored him， staring instead at each other， two men who in
the past months had become as close as brothers， clearly seeing
one another for the first time in full light.
They were both filthy， their faces and hands crusted with dirt，
their beards tangled with bits of food. Sores covered their faces
and necks， and between the dirt and the pustules the fragments of
skin showing through held the gray pallor of death.
Sartene was slightly more than average height， but he seemed
taller. His lean， raw-boned body stood erect， and his severe
dark eyes were accented by a classically curved nose. His hair，
matted and knotted， showed flecks of gray through the filth， but
his beard was dark and youthful， even though he was clearly in
his mid-forties.
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