Prologue PROLOGUE July 15, 1866
I AM working on a pair of gloves. They are for a man. I wonder who he will be, if he will know where his gloves began their life.

Really, I do not need to do this: we mere accused are not obliged to do any work. Most of us choose to, even so. The sewing is something familiar to cling to in this place. From aristocrats to slum dwellers, we women are all united by our ability to wield a needle and thread. There are no distinctions in Saint-Lazare: all the accused are housed together in the common dormitory. Regardless of crime or class, we all rise together at five a.m., we pray together, we eat the same broth—which includes meat only on a Sunday—and we exercise in the same yard. There are prostitutes, drunks, thieves, vandals, swindlers—some of them children no more than twelve—and murderesses, like me. Word gets around quickly about us, and we are left to ourselves, so I am not bothered by any of the petty infighting I sometimes see among the others awaiting sentence.

This is a kind of purgatory, for none stays here long. We all wait to hear where we will be sent next. If we are lucky, it may be hard labor in the provinces; if we are unlucky, the Grande Roquette, and the guillotine that resides there. But I do not need to rely on luck.

I am going to walk free.