Perhaps they might pardon her life, taking into account her voluntary action in giving herself up.

But the prison, the seclusion with shaved head, dressed in some coarse serge frock, condemned to silence, perhaps suffering hunger and cold, filled her with invincible repulsion....

No, death before that! And so she was continuing her life as a spy, shutting her eyes to the future, living only in the present, trying to keep from thinking, considering herself happy if she could see before her even a few days of security.
The meeting with Ferragut in the street of Marseilles had revived her drooping spirits, arousing new hope.
"Get me out of here; keep me with you.

On your ship I could live as forgotten by the world as though I were dead....

And if my presence annoys you, take me far away from France, leave me in some distant country!" She was anxious to evade isolation in the enemy's territory, obliged to obey her superiors like a caged beast who has to take jabs through the iron grating.