Two men, separated by a corridor and cold metal bars, stared at each other.
"Well, what a fine gilded prison," said the first, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them after the guards' departure.
"Would it be too much to ask how a humble man like me might receive the same treatment as you?" he continued, before being interrupted.
A sudden gust of icy air made him shiver, cutting short his mockery toward his cellmate. His ragged clothes were far from enough to withstand the biting cold of the dungeons, leaving him to endure the harsh winter in full.
Across from him, the man of imposing stature, with sharp and noble eyes, kept watching him without deigning to reply.
Angered, the man in rags spoke again, this time with vehemence.
"Why look at me with such contempt! You and I are both locked in the same cellar, and the same fate awaits us. Just because your cell is better furnished and your clothes warmer doesn't give you the right to look down on me!"
After these words, he turned to inspect his new dwelling, which would house him until the fateful day of his execution.
After a quick glance, a weary sigh escaped his lungs.
A straw bed laid directly on the ground, a hole dug in one corner, and a mud-covered floor made up the room. The damp straw promised rheumatism from the very first night.
Defeated, he walked toward one of the stone walls and sat down on the small patch of dry earth that remained.
A pair of rats suddenly darted from a dark corner of the cell he hadn't noticed due to the lack of light—the single candle in the corridor was far too dim to illuminate it. Startled at first, he quickly recovered and leapt up to try to catch one.
Unsurprisingly, he caught nothing. The rats, too agile and hard to spot in the gloom, easily escaped and fled into one of the many empty cells.
A fist slammed into the mud, splattering droplets all around the impact.
"Argh, I'm so hungry! Those damned guards barely fed me on the way here. If judgment takes too long, I'll surely starve before hearing the verdict."
Across the corridor, the pair of piercing blue eyes had never left the miserable man who had just arrived. Without ever looking away, he had witnessed all his antics.
Seeing the peasant rise again with a defeated look, his expression finally changed—a faint curve of amusement formed on his lips.
He turned, walking between a fine bed and a desk covered with writings, until he reached a table laden with food, some dishes still steaming.
Quickly, he filled a plate with a generous assortment of them before returning to the bars.
"Greetings, good sir. May I ask your name? It will be easier to converse if we know the person we are speaking with."
His elegant voice caught the other's attention instantly. He brushed aside his long, tangled hair that blocked his view and looked at the nobleman who seemed to despise him.
Upon seeing what the man was holding, the wretch straightened abruptly, then bowed, answering in a submissive tone:
"This humble creature is called Garin, my lord. Please forgive my earlier words; hunger and cold have driven me mad and clouded my judgment."
His erratic eyes flicked back and forth between the tempting plate and the nobleman throughout his speech. Garin swallowed a bit of saliva, awaiting the man's response.
"Hmm, very well, Garin. You may address me as Lucien."
"And do not worry. I will not hold your words against you—so long, of course, as they are not repeated."
Lucien then passed the plate to Garin through the bars, the narrowness of the corridor allowing them to just barely exchange it without trouble.
Hours passed, slowly turning into days, then into weeks. Over time, the discussions between noble and peasant deepened, shifting from reserved and impersonal to friendly conversations between two equals.
The lack of light and the filth of the place would no doubt have driven either man insane had they been alone. Fortunately, the presence of one another allowed them to endure the days without sinking into the abyss of despair.
One morning, a group of armed guards arrived to the sound of the church bells. Someone in ceremonial attire stepped forward and unrolled a parchment sealed with wax.
He began to read quickly, disgusted by the mere fact of being there.
In a loud voice, he proclaimed:
"The man known as Garin, accused of witchcraft, of making a pact with the devil, and of spreading plague and sickness upon your village—causing the death of one hundred and twenty-eight valiant servants of God—is hereby sentenced to death by the people's tribunal of the city of Sula. The punishment for your sins shall be immolation by fire. The pyre will be erected tomorrow at dawn in the square, where you shall be chained. You will then be delivered to the fury of the crowd before the flames claim you at sunset."
As soon as the last syllable was spoken, the messenger turned to leave the dark corridor.
Silence followed his passage. Neither Garin nor Lucien uttered a word.
The announcement of the sentence had cast a chill over them, leaving them speechless.
The man whom Lucien now considered his friend—the first true friend he had ever known—would die tomorrow in the cruelest of ways.
The accusation of witchcraft left him cold. As a nobleman, he knew it was merely a political tool meant to appease the masses.
Slowly, he walked toward his bed and pulled from beneath it a heavy wooden chest.
From it, he drew a wineskin, hidden among folds of fine garments.
Without a word, he tossed it to Garin before sitting down against the bars.
The impact of the wineskin on the ground snapped Garin out of his stupor. He glanced at Lucien, bent down to pick it up, and took a deep swig.
The alcohol warmed his insides, dispelling for a brief moment the constant chill that had never left him since his first day there.
Unexpected tears rolled down his cheeks before he collapsed to the ground.
Sobbing, he lay there, broken and destroyed.
Lucien tried in vain to comfort him, but nothing worked. Only at the sound of the bells the next morning did Garin rise again. He took another gulp of wine before tossing the skin back to Lucien, who hadn't closed his eyes all night.
"You look rather downcast, my friend. Never would I have thought that one day a nobleman would mourn my death."
Lucien, in tears, caught the wineskin without ever taking his eyes off Garin. He too took a sip while listening to his friend.
In silence, he listened to the last words of a man condemned to die.
The clinking of keys ended it.
At the steady sound of approaching footsteps, Lucien wanted to say a few words to his friend. But the devil seemed to have cursed his tongue: not a word came out, not a sound. He wished to say farewell, to reassure him…
But the words stuck in his throat, unable to escape.
Soon, the guards opened the cell, chained Garin, and pushed him toward the exit.
The last words of Garin echoed through the long corridor:
"Thank you, my friend—and live a long life for me."