“If only this would end⁠—if only I could be free once more,” he sometimes thought. “After all, they will let me out sooner or later, or send me to penal servitude⁠—no matter which. It is possible to live like that anywhere⁠ ⁠… and I will live so! I can and must live so⁠ ⁠… not to live so is madness!”

One day when he was in that joyous, exalted state, the inspector came into his cell at an unusual hour, and asked him if he was comfortable, or if he wanted anything. Svetlogoúb was surprised, and unable to understand what this change of manner meant. He asked for a packet of cigarettes and some matches, expecting a refusal. But the inspector replied that he would send some at once, and a watchman really brought him a packet of cigarettes and some matches. “Someone has probably interceded for me,” thought Svetlogoúb; and, having lit a cigarette, began to pace up and down the cell, considering what this change might portend.