Under Sentence of Death. Виктор Мари Гюго

stones that he had been measuring.

      CHAPTER XXX

      Then a ridiculous incident occurred. The good old gendarme was relieved, and I, selfish wretch, had not even shaken hands with him. The new sentinel was a man of vulgar features, bull-eyed, with a foolish expression in his face.

      I paid no attention to him. I had turned my back to the door, and, seated at the table, was pressing my hand to my forehead. A light tap upon my shoulder caused me to turn my head. The fresh guard and I were alone.

      This is something the way in which he began the conversation, “Criminal, have you a kind heart?”

      “No,” answered I.

      The sharpness of my reply seemed to disconcert him, but he began again after a moment’s hesitation—

      “But one is not wicked for the pleasure of being so!”

      “Why not?” answered I. “If you have nothing better to say than that, leave me in peace. What are you aiming at?”

      “Forgive me, criminal,” replied he. “Suppose that you could ensure the happiness of a poor fellow without its costing you anything, would you not do so?”

      I shrugged my shoulders.

      “Have you come from a madhouse? You choose a strange moment to ask a favour. Why should I consult any one’s happiness?”

      He lowered his voice in a mysterious manner, which accorded ill with his idiotic expression.

      “Yes, criminal, happiness for me, fortune for me, and all coming from you. Look here, I am a poor gendarme. The work is hard, and the pay light. The keep of my horse ruins me; so I put into the lottery to try and square myself. One must have an object in life. Up to this time I have failed to gain a prize because I have never chosen a lucky number. I seek for them in sure places, but am always a little wrong. If I stake on 76, 77 is sure to come up. I do all that I can, but the right one will never come up. A moment’s patience, please; I am nearly at the end. Here is a lucky chance for me. It appears, criminal—forgive me—that it is all up with you to-day. It is a well-known fact that those who die as you do, see the lucky number in advance. Promise me that you will come to me to-morrow evening—it will be no trouble for you to do so—and to give me three numbers, three good ones. Will you, eh? I am not afraid of ghosts, so be easy. Here is my address: Cassine Popincourt, Staircase A, No. 26, at the bottom of the passage. You will remember that, will you not? Come this evening if that is more convenient.”

      I should have disdained to answer this fool, if a mad hope had not sprung up in my heart. In the desperate position in which I was placed, it seemed as if I might be able to break my chain with a slender reed like this.

      “Listen,” said I, playing my part as well as I could, “I can render you richer than a king; I can give you millions, on one condition.”

      He opened his dull eyes.

      “What is it? what is it? anything that you wish.”

      “Instead of three numbers you shall have four. Change clothes with me.”

      “Is that all?” exclaimed he, hurriedly unbuttoning his uniform.

      I got up from my seat. I watched all his movements—my heart beat; already I saw all doors opening before the uniform of a gendarme, and the Conciergerie left far behind me.

      Suddenly he stopped, with an air of hesitation. “Ah! you want to get out of this?”

      “Of course,” I replied; “but your fortune is made.”

      He interrupted me.

      “Ah, no, that will not do; how could the numbers be worth anything if you were not dead?”

      I sat down in silence; all hope had fled, and again I was plunged in despair.

      CHAPTER XXXI

      I closed my eyes, and covered them with my hands, striving to forget the present in the past. As I pondered, the recollections of my childhood came back to me, soft, calm, and smiling like islands of flowers, in the black gulf of confused thoughts which turned and twisted in my brain.

      I could see myself once again, a laughing schoolboy, playing, running, and shouting to my brothers, in the green avenues of the neglected garden of the home where my earlier years were spent. And then, four years later, I was there—still a child, but full of dreams and sentiments. But there was a girl with me in the lonely garden.

      A little Spaniard, with large eyes and long hair, olive-tinted skin, red lips and cheeks, an Andalusian, fourteen years of age, called Pepa. Our mothers had told us to run about together in the garden; we came out and walked about. They had told us to play, but we preferred to talk, children of the same age but different sex.

      For more than a year we had been in the habit of playing and quarrelling together. I disputed with Pepita for the ripest apple on the tree, and I once struck her for the possession of a bird’s nest. She wept, and I said, “Serves you right,” and we both ran to complain to our mothers, who openly blamed me, but in their inmost heart each thought that her own child was right.

      Now she is leaning on my arm; I feel proud and happy. We are walking slowly, and conversing in low tones. She lets her handkerchief drop, I pick it up for her; our hands tremble as they meet. She is talking to me of the little birds, of the sun that we see over there setting in crimson behind the trees, of her schoolmates, of her dress, of her ribbons. We talk of the most innocent things, and yet we blush; the child has become a young girl.

      It was a summer’s evening; we were under the chestnut-trees at the bottom of the garden.

      After one of those long intervals of silence which occurred so often in our walks, she suddenly let go of my arm, and cried, “Let us run.” And she started off in front of me, her figure slender as a wasp’s, her little feet raising her dress half-way up the leg. I pursued her; she fled. As she dashed along the wind raised her tippet, and showed the olive-tinted hue of her neck.

      I was beside myself; I caught her just by the ruined well. As the winner I seized her by the waist, and drew her down upon a bank of turf. She was out of breath, and laughing. I was quite serious, and gazed into her dark eyes, half-veiled by her black lashes.

      “Sit there,” said she to me; “there is plenty of daylight, let us read. Have you a book?”

      I had with me the second volume of the “Travels of Spalanzani.” I opened it at hazard, and moved close to her; she rested her shoulder against mine, and we began to read upon the same page. Before turning the page she had always to wait for me. Her intellect ran quicker than mine did.

      “Have you finished?” she asked, when I had hardly begun.

      Our heads touched, our hair mingled together, and our respirations crossed each other, and then our lips met.

      When we wished to begin reading again, the sky was studded with stars.

      “Oh, mamma, mamma!” she exclaimed as she entered the house, “how we have been running!”

      I kept silence.

      “You say nothing, my boy,” said my mother. “You look sad.”

      My heart was full of bliss.

      I shall remember that evening until the last day of my life.

      The last day of my life!

      CHAPTER XXXII

      Some hour has struck—I do not know which. I can hardly hear the sound; there is a buzzing in my ears, it is my last thoughts that are working in my brain.

      At this last moment I fall back upon my recollections. I look upon my crime with horror, but I wish for a longer time for repentance. I had more feelings of remorse before my condemnation; since, it seems that there is room for nothing except the thoughts of death. When my thoughts turn for a moment to my past life, they veer round to the axe which will shortly terminate all, and I shiver as if the idea was a new one. My happy childhood, my glorious youth, the end of which is to be stained with my blood. Between that and the present there is a river of