The cell was dark and damp; he dirt floor covered with dried rushes. They were not fresh. No bench, no chair, no low stone bed.
The man sat huddled in one corner. He had pulled together some of rushes to make an ersatz cushion. Still, the cold emanating from the nearby walls seeped through his thin garment. At least it was warmer now that it was in April—the winters were cold here in the center of Paris.