The Last Day of a Condemned Man Page 5

  Whatever I do, this dread thought is ever with me, like a ghost at my side, alone and jealous, chasing away all other thoughts, face to face with my wretched self, and touching me with its icy hands when I turn away and close my eyes. It glides along every path where my soul would hide, it mingles like a frightful refrain with every word I hear, it clings to the hideous bars of my prison, it pursues me awake, it spies my troubled sleep, and creeps into my dreams under the form of a knife.

  I waken with a start, still pursued by it; I cry: "Ah, it is nothing but a dream!"--but scarcely are my heavy eyes half opened, before I see the dread thought written on the horrible reality which surrounds me, on the damp, close floor of my cell, in the pale rays of my night-lamp, in the coarse wool of my garments, on the sombre figure of the sentinel, with his cartridge-box gleaming through the bars. It seems to me that even now, a voice whispers in my ear: Condemned to die!

  Chapter II

  It was a beautiful morning in August. For three days my trial had been going on; for three days my name and my crime had called together a crowd of spectators, who swooped down upon the benches of the court-room like so many crows around a corpse; for three days the phantasmagoria of judges, witnesses, lawyers, and public prosecutors had been coming and going before me, now grotesque, now bloody, but always dark and dreadful. The first two nights I had not been able to sleep from anxiety and fright; but weariness, physical and mental, brought me rest on the third. At midnight I had left the judges, who were to come to a decision. I was taken back to the straw of my dungeon; and I fell into a deep sleep, a sleep of forgetfulness. That was the first peaceful moment I had had for many a day.

  I was still sleeping soundly when they came to waken me. This time the heavy step and the iron shoes of the turnkey, the rattle of his bunch of keys, and the hoarse grinding of the locks, were not enough to rouse me from my lethargy. It needed his rough voice in my ear, and his heavy hand upon my arm. "Get up, will you?" I opened my eyes, and sat up in terror. Just at that instant there fell through the high narrow grating of my cell, upon the ceiling of the adjoining corridor, the only ray of light I had seen for a long time, the yellow reflection, which eyes accustomed to the shade of a prison easily recognize as the sun. I love the sun.

  "It is a fair day," I said to the jailer.

  For a moment he did not answer, as if doubtful whether it were worth while to waste a word; then with an effort he muttered roughly:--

  "Perhaps it is."

  I was silent, my mind seemed half asleep, but my lips were smiling, and my eyes were fixed upon the soft ray of gold which illuminated the ceiling.

  "It is a beautiful day," I said again.

  "Yes," the man returned; "and they are waiting for you."

  The words, like a thread which breaks the flight of an insect, brought me violently back to reality. I saw again, like a flash of lightning, the dreary court-room, the horseshoe of the judges which was covered with bloody rags, the three rows of stupid-looking witnesses, the two gendarmes on either side of me, and the swaying black gowns; then, the billowy sea of heads at the farther end of the room, and the fixed gaze of the dozen jurors, who had kept watch while I slept!

  I rose; my teeth chattered, my hands trembled, my limbs shook, I could not find my clothes. At my first step I swayed like a man carrying too heavy a burden. But I followed the jailer.

  The two gendarmes were waiting at the door of my cell. They put handcuffs on my wrists, and carefully closed the complicated little padlocks. I let them do it; they were machines on a machine.

  We crossed an inner court. The brisk morning air revived me. I raised my head. The sky was blue; and the warm rays of the sun, falling across the long chimneys, marked great angles of light on the topmost walls of the dark prison. It was a beautiful day indeed.

  We ascended a spiral staircase, crossed a corridor, then another, and still a third, and finally reached a low door that stood open. A heavy odor and the confused murmuring voices came to me; it was the crowd in the court-room. I entered.

  At sight of me there rose a clashing of arms and of voices. The benches were hastily moved back, the boards creaked; and as I crossed the room, between two crowds of people, flanked by soldiers, I felt that I was the centre to which were attached the threads which pulled every gaping, staring face.

  Suddenly I noticed that I was without irons; but when or where they had been removed I had no idea.

  Then a great hush fell upon the room. I was in my place. As the noise and tumult of the crowd ceased, my mind also grew calm; and all at once I saw clearly, what up to then I had realized only in a dazed way, that the decisive moment had come, that I was there to hear my sentence.

  Explain it as you will, this thought caused me no terror. The windows were open; the air and the noise of the city fell upon my ears; the room was as bright as if there were to be a wedding there; the sun's rays fell here and there in shining crosses, upon the floor, on the tables, broken by the angles of the wall; and from the shining mouldings of the windows each beam hung in the air, a great prism of shimmering gold.

  The judges on the platform had a satisfied air, probably because they had reached a decision. The features of the presiding judge, thrown into soft relief by a ray from one of the windows, looked calm and kind; a young attorney was smoothing out his cravat, and talking gayly to a pretty lady in a red bonnet, who as a mark of special favor had been given a seat behind him.

  The jurors alone appeared wearied and discouraged, but I thought they looked so because they had been up all night. Some of them yawned. Nothing in their kindly faces showed that they had just pronounced a death-sentence; they seemed to me as if they wanted nothing but a good night's sleep.

  In front of me a window stood wide open. I heard the flower-venders laughing on the quay; and on the window-bench a pretty little yellow plant, bathed in the sunlight, was playing with the wind in a cranny of the wall.

  How could a gloomy thought enter into the midst of so many pleasant ones? Surrounded by the outer air and the sunshine, I could think of nothing but liberty; hope glowed within me, like the daylight without; and in perfect confidence I awaited my sentence as one awaits freedom and life.

  My lawyer, whom they had been expecting, arrived at last. He had breakfasted heartily. Taking his place, he leaned toward me with a smile.

  "I have hope," said he.

  "So have I," I replied easily, smiling also.

  "Yes," he continued; "although, of course, I know nothing of their decision, still I have no doubt they will refuse to find premeditation, and in that case it will be only penal servitude."

  "What do you mean, sir?" I asked indignantly; "I would prefer death, a hundred times! Yes, death!" Besides, some inner voice whispered, what do I risk by saying this? Has a death-sentence ever been pronounced except at twelve o'clock on a cold, drizzling winter night, in a dark and gloomy room, beneath the glare of candles?

  It would be impossible in the month of August, at eight o'clock in the morning, on such a beautiful day, and by such a kind jury! And my eyes turned again to the pretty yellow flower playing in the sun.

  Then the presiding judge, who had been waiting only for my lawyer, told me to rise. The gendarmes "presented arms;" and as from an electric shock, the entire crowd stood up. A small, insignificant fellow, at a table below the judges, the clerk, I suppose he was, began to read the verdict of the jury. A cold perspiration came from my every limb, and I leaned against the wall to keep from falling.

  "Lawyer, have you anything to say as to why the sentence should not be pronounced?" asked the judge.

  I had everything to say, but no word came to me. My tongue clove to my mouth.

  The defence rose.

  I understood that he was trying to soften the decision of the jury, and to substitute for the punishment prescribed, the other suggestion, which had made me so angry.

  My indignation must indeed have been great, to make itself felt above the thousand conflicting emotions of my mind.
I wanted to shout out what I had already told him: "I prefer death a hundred times!" But breath failed me; and I could only grasp him roughly by the arm, and cry hoarsely, "No!"

  The attorney-general began to argue with the lawyer, and I listened with a dazed sort of satisfaction. The judges then withdrew; after a moment they returned, and the presiding judge read my sentence.

  "Condemned to die!" shouted the crowd; and while they led me away, the people rushed at my heels with the noise of a falling building. I walked along dazed and stupefied. A change had taken place in me. Up to the moment of the death-sentence, I had been living, breathing among other men; now I clearly saw that there was a high wall between the world and myself. Nothing seemed the same to me. The great shining windows, the beautiful sunshine, the clear sky, the pretty flower,--all were white and dull, like a shroud. The crowd of men, women, and children following me were like phantoms.

  At the foot of the staircase, a dirty black and closely barred vehicle awaited me. As I stepped in, I happened to glance across the Square. "A man condemned to die!" cried several passers-by, running toward the carriage. Through the cloud which seemed to rise between me and the surrounding objects, I saw two young girls following me with wide-opened eyes. "Good!" exclaimed the younger one, clapping her hands, "it will be in six weeks."

  Chapter III

  Condemned to die!

  Well, why not? "Men," I remember to have read in some book which contained nothing else that was good, "Men are all condemned to die with various reprieves." How is my position any different?

  Since my sentence was pronounced, how many have died who had expected a long life! How many have gone before me, who, young, free, and healthy, had counted on seeing my head fall upon the Place de Greve! How many, even now, may die before me, who are now living, breathing the glad air, and coming and going as they please!

  And then, why should I want to live? The dull light, the black prison bread, the portion of thin soup, which is brought to me in a galley's bowl, the harsh treatment I receive from the jailers and keepers,--I, who am refined and educated,--without a single human being near me who thinks me worthy of a word or to whom I can speak, trembling at everything that I have done and that others are going to do,--these are about the only blessings of which the hangman can rob me.

  But, it is horrible!

  Chapter IV

  The black carriage brought me here, to this hideous Bicetre.

  Seen from afar, the building is somewhat majestic in appearance. It spreads along the horizon, on the brow of a hill, and, in the distance, still preserves some of its former splendor, the appearance of a king's chateau. But as one approaches, the palace is found to be in ruins. The fallen wings hurt one's feelings. Shame and poverty stare down from the royal facades; it looks as if there were leprosy behind the walls. It is without windows or window-frames, with nothing but great iron cross-bars, and here and there the wan face of a galley or a madman peering through.

  This is a near view of life.

  Chapter V

  Scarcely had I arrived, before handcuffs were placed on me. Precautions were redoubled; I was allowed neither knife nor fork at meals; the strait-jacket, a sort of linen bag with wings, imprisoned my arms. The jailers were responsible for my life. I had sued for a writ of error; the troublesome business would not be over for six or seven weeks, and it was important that I should reach the Place de Greve safe and sound.

  During the first few days they treated me with a gentleness which was horrible. The respect of a jailer savors of the scaffold. But, happily, after a time, their manner changed. I was handled like the other prisoners, with a common brutality, and received no more of the special and polite attentions which brought the hangman constantly before me. This was not the sole improvement. My youth, my submission, the interest that the prison chaplain took in me, and especially some Latin words which I addressed to the concierge, who did not understand them, made them allow me to walk once a week with the other prisoners, without the strait-jacket, which was paralyzing me. After much hesitation, they also allowed me ink, paper, pens, and a night-lamp.

  Every Sunday, after service, I am allowed in the yard at the hour of exercise, and then I talk with the prisoners. I have to. They are good fellows, the poor wretches. They tell me of their crimes, which are horrible to hear; but I know that they are boasting. They are teaching me to speak slang, to "rouscailler bigorne" (swing the anvil), as they say. It is a language which has grown upon the general language like a hideous excrescence or wart. Sometimes it is strangely forcible and frightfully graphic. For instance: there is some juice on the trimar (blood on the road); to marry the widow (to be hanged), as if the rope of the hangman were the widow of every one who is hanged. A robber's head has two names, the Sorbonne, when it plans, reasons out, and advises crime; the tronche, when the hangman cuts it off. Sometimes the language has the wit of a Vaudeville: as a wicker cashmire (a rag-picker's basket) the lyer (the tongue); and then, everywhere, every instant, strange, mysterious words occur, rough and unseemly, coined, one knows not where, as, the taule (the hangman), the cone (death), the placarde (the place of execution). They use the words toads and spiders. To hear this language spoken gives one an idea of something dirty and dusty, of a bundle of rags shaken in front of one. But these men pity me, at least, and they are the only ones. The jailers, the wardens, and the turnkeys,--I hate them,--talk and laugh, and discuss me before my very eyes, as if I were a thing.

  Chapter VI

  I said to myself,--

  "Since I have writing materials, why not use them?" But what shall I write? Imprisoned within four stone walls, cold and bare, without space to walk, without a horizon for my eyes, my one diversion consisting in following mechanically throughout the entire day the slow march of the white square which the peephole of my door cuts out on the opposite dull wall, and as I just now said, alone with one idea, an idea of crime and punishment, of murder and of death,--is there anything for me to tell, I who have nothing left to do in this world? What would there be in my worn-out and empty brain which would be worth writing?

  And yet why not? If everything about me is dull and monotonous, is there not within me a tempest, a strife, a tragedy? Does not this fixed thought which possesses me, appear before me, every hour, every instant, under a new form, more hideous and bloody as the time approaches? Why should I not try to tell myself all that is strange and dreadful in my loneliness. Surely the field is a wide one; and short as my life may be between now and then, there will be plenty of chances to use my pen and ink, in writing of the agony, the terror, and the tortures that assail me. Besides, the only way to lighten my agony is to study it, and writing it will be a distraction to me.

  Perhaps, too, what I write will not be wholly useless. This diary of my suffering, hour after hour, minute after minute, torture after torture, if I have strength enough left to carry it up to the moment when it will be physically impossible to continue it,--may not this story (necessarily unfinished, but as complete as possible) of my feelings, carry with it a great and mighty lesson? Might there not be more than a lesson for those who convict, in this verbal process of agonizing thought, in this ever-increasing chain of suffering, in this kind of intellectual autopsy of a man condemned to die? Perhaps my story will make them more lenient, when at some future time the question arises of throwing a thinking head, a man's head, into what they call the scales of justice. Perhaps the wretched men have never thought of the slow succession of tortures included under the expeditious form of a death-sentence. Have they ever considered the painful thought that in the man whom they condemn there is an intellect, an intellect which had counted on life, a soul which was not prepared for death? No. In all that, they see only the vertical fall of a triangular knife, thinking, no doubt, that for the condemned man there is nothing before or after.

  These leaves will undeceive them. Perhaps they will be published some day, and may make the mind of these men ponder an instant upon mental suffering; for this the
y do not suspect. They triumph at being able to kill without making the body suffer. Ah! that is what they think! But what is physical suffering when compared to moral? How horrible and pitiful it is that laws should be made thus! The day will come, and perhaps these memoirs, the last confidences of a poor wretch, may help to hasten it....

  At least, after my death, may the wind not play in the yard with these sheets of paper, covered with mud; may they not rot in the rain, pasted like stars to the broken window of a jailer's room.

  Chapter VII

  May all that I write here some day be of use to others; may it keep the judge from pronouncing death sentences; may it save poor wretches, whether they are innocent or not, from the agony to which I am condemned. And yet why? To what end? For what good? When my head is cut off, what difference will it make to me if they cut off other heads? Can I really think of such nonsense as this? Suppose they hurl down the scaffold after I have mounted it! I ask you what good will it do me?

  What! the sun, the spring, the flowering fields, the birds who awaken the morning, the clouds, the trees, nature, liberty, life,--have I lost them all?

  Ah! It is I who must be saved! Is it really true that this cannot be, that I must die to-morrow, to-day perhaps; is this true? O God! What a horrible idea it is to dash out one's brains against the walls of one's prison!

  Chapter VIII

  Let me count the time that still remains. Three days' stay after the sentence, for the writ of error.

  Eight days of oblivion before the Court of Appeals, after which the briefs, as they are called, are filed with the clerk.

  Fifteen days delay at the clerk's, who does not know that they even exist, and who, nevertheless, is supposed to have transmitted them, after examination, to the Court of Appeals.

  There, each one is classified, numbered, and registered; for the guillotine is crowded, and each must go in turn.

  Fifteen days to watch for something which may not favor you in the end. Finally, the Court sits, usually on a Thursday, rejects twenty writs together, sends them all back to the clerk, who in turn sends them to the attorney-general, who transmits them to the hangman. Three days.