Виктор Мари Гюго
Under Sentence of Death
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 blood, another’s and mine. If any one ever reads my life, they will not believe in this fatal year, which opens with a crime, and closes with a shameful punishment. It would be impossible to credit it.
A sanguinary law, O cruel men—and yet I was not naturally wicked.
To die in a few hours, and to think that there was a time when I was free and pure, when I wandered under the trees, when I walked upon the leaf-strewn paths.
CHAPTER XXXIII
At this very time there is, in the houses around the place in which I am, men who come and go, who laugh and talk, who read the paper and talk over their affairs, tradesmen who sell, young girls who are working at their ball-dresses, and mothers who are playing with their children.
CHAPTER XXXIV
I recollect one day, when I was a child, going to see the peal of bells of Notre Dame. I was already dizzy with having mounted the dark winding staircase, and having crossed the narrow gallery which connects the two towers of the cathedral, and saw Paris stretching beneath my feet; then I entered the belfry where hangs the bell, and its clapper which weighs I know not how many pounds.
I advanced hesitatingly over the uneven flooring, gazing at the bell so celebrated amongst the children and the people of Paris, and remarked, not without a feeling of terror, that the sloping tile roofs were on a level with my feet; and I took a bird’s-eye view of the place of Paris—Notre Dame, and the passers-by looking like a swarm of ants. All of a sudden the heavy bell rang, a vibration shook the air and made the lofty tower quiver. The planking trembled on the beams. Affrighted, I threw myself upon the flooring, and clasped it with my two hands, speechless and breathless, with that tremendous pealing in my ears, whilst under my very eyes was that tremendous precipice where so many people were passing in calm and quiet. Well, it seems that I am still in the belfry tower. Everything seems to be buzzing and humming around me, there is a sound of bells beating on my brain; and around me, as across an abyss, I can see that calm and peaceful life that I have quitted where men walk peacefully to and fro.
CHAPTER XXXV
The Hotel de Ville is a sinister-looking edifice with its pointed roof, and its strange-looking clock with a white face, its staircases worn by the feet of many passers-by. There are two arches on the left and right. There it stands facing the Place de Grêve, sombre and melancholy, its front worn away by age, and so dark that even in the sunshine it looks black.
On the day of an execution gendarmes issue in crowds from all the doors, and its hundreds of windows gaze sternly upon the condemned man. In the evening the face of the illuminated clock shows brilliant against its gloomy walls.
CHAPTER XXXVI
It is a quarter past one.
This is how I feel. A violent headache and cold in the extremities, and a burning forehead. Each time that I rise or bend it seems to me as if some liquid which floats in my skull drives my brain against the top of my head.
I have nervous tremblings, and every now and then the pen falls from my hands as though I had sustained a galvanic shock.
My eyes water as if I were in a smoky room.
I have a pain in my elbows.
But in two hours and forty-five minutes I shall be cured.
CHAPTER XXXVII
There are those who say that the pain is nothing, that I shall hardly suffer at all, that science has made death very easy.
What then is this six weeks’ torment that I have suffered, and this death agony for a whole day? What will be said of this day that goes so slowly, and yet too quickly? What is this ladder of torture that leads to the scaffold?
Perhaps they do not call this suffering.
Are not there the same convulsions when the blood oozes out drop by drop, and the intellect weakens as each thought grows less coherent?
And so there is no suffering. Are they sure? Who has told them so? Has there ever been an instance of a severed head which has risen bleeding to the edge of the basket, and has cried to the populace, “It has not hurt me a bit!”
Have any dead returned to thank the inventor, and to say, “It is a splendid invention, the mechanism is good. Stick to it?”
No, nothing of the kind—in a minute, in a second the thing is done. Have they ever, even in thought, put themselves in the place of the criminal, when the heavy knife falls, bites into the flesh, grinds through the nerves and shivers the vertebræ? But all pain is over in half a second. Horror!
CHAPTER XXXVIII
It is strange that I can think of nothing but the king. It is no use trying to drive it away; a voice in my ears keeps on crying: “At this very moment he is in this city, not far from here, in another palace—a man who, too, has guards at all his doors, a man in a similar position to yourself, except that he is in the highest whilst you are in the lowest. Every instant of his life is nothing but glory, grandeur, delight, and revelry. Around him congregate love, respect, and veneration. The loudest voice softens as it speaks to him, and the haughtiest heads incline. Gold and silk are ever before his eyes. Now he may be holding a council of his ministers, all of whom are of his opinion; or he may be going out hunting, and to a ball this evening, leaving to others the work of preparing his pleasures.”
Well, this man is flesh and blood as I am, and one stroke of his pen would make this horrible scaffold disappear, and restore me to life, liberty, family, and wealth. And he is kind, they say, and would gladly do so; but yet nothing will be done.
CHAPTER XXXIX
But let me be courageous with death, let me grasp the horrible idea and consider it face to face. Let us ask it what it really is, let it tell us what its wishes are; let us turn it over in every way and spell out the puzzle, gazing forwards into the tomb.
I imagine that when my eyes are closed, I shall see a bottomless abyss of light into which my soul will fall. I believe that the sky itself will be resplendent with light, and that the stars will be mere dark spots instead of being, as they are now, sparks of diamonds upon a canopy of black velvet.
Or perchance, miserable wretch that I am, I shall fall without cessation into the depths of a hideous black gulf, seeing hideous forms threatening me on all sides.
Or, after receiving the blow, shall I awake and find myself upon a soft flat surface, wandering about in semi-darkness, and turning over and over like a head that rolls? I can fancy that there will be a strong wind, and that my head will be jolted with other rolling heads. In places there will be brooks and ponds of an unknown liquid, but all will be black.
When, in the midst of my revolutions, my eyes will be turned upwards, they will look upon a sky of shadows, and far away in the background huge arches of smoke darker than the darkness itself. I shall see millions of red sparks flitting about, which upon coming near to me will turn into birds of fire;—and this will go on for ever and ever.
It may be that, upon certain gloomy nights of winter, those who have died upon the Place de Grêve may meet together, for is it not their domain? It will be a pale and bleeding crowd, and assuredly I shall not be absent from it. There will be no moon, and we shall all speak in a low voice. The Hotel de Ville will be there, with its mouldering walls, its dilapidated roof, and the clock that had no pity for us.
A guillotine from Hell will be erected, where a demon will execute a headsman. The hour will be four, and we shall form the crowd round the scaffold.
Probably things will be like this. But if the dead do return, in what shapes will they appear? What part of their incomplete and mutilated body will they keep? Which will they choose? Shall the head or the trunk appear as a spectre?
Alas! what has Death done with the soul? What feelings does it leave to it? What has it taken away, and what has it given? Where does he put it? and does he ever lend it the eyes of the flesh to look upon this earth and weep?
O for a priest, a priest who can tell me this;
I want a priest, and a crucifix to kiss,
Always the same, my God!
CHAPTER XL
I have asked them to let me sleep a little, and have thrown myself upon the bed.
I have a rush of blood to the head, which makes rest necessary to me. This is my last sleep in this life. I have had a dream.
I dreamt that it was night, that I was in my study with two or three of my friends, whose names I do not recollect.
My wife was asleep in a room hard by, and our child was with her.
My friends and I spoke in a low voice, so that we might not alarm them.
All of a sudden we heard a strange noise in some other portion of the house; it was like a key being turned quietly, like the creaking of a bolt.
There was something in the sound that alarmed us. We imagined that it might be thieves who had got into the house.
We resolved to search the premises. I rose, took a candle in my hand; my friends followed me one by one. We passed through the bedroom where my wife was sleeping with our child by her side. Then we came to the drawing-room. There was no one there. The family portraits hung upon the wall, which was covered with red paper, motionless in their gilded homes. It seemed to me as if the dining-room door was not in its usual place.
We entered the dining-room, and searched it, I going first. The door that led into the staircase was closed, and so were the windows. Near the stove I noticed that the linen-closet was open, and the door drawn back forming an angle with the wall, as though to conceal something.
This surprised us; we imagined that there was some one hiding behind the door.
I tried to close it, and experienced some resistance. In astonishment I pulled harder, when it yielded suddenly, and behind it we saw a little old woman standing motionless against the wall, her eyes closed, and her arms hanging down in front of her.
She looked hideous, and my hair bristled.
I said, “What are you doing here?”
She made no answer.
I asked, “Who are you?”
She did not reply, nor did she move or unclose her eyes.
My friends said, “No doubt she is in league with those who have broken into the house with some evil design. Upon hearing us coming they fled, but she having been unable to escape hid herself here.”
I again questioned her, but she continued silent, motionless, and sightless.
One of my friends pushed her. She fell to the ground like a log, like some inanimate object.
We pushed her with our feet, then we raised her again, and stood her up against the wall; but she showed no sign of life, and remained dumb to our questions, as though she were deaf.
At last we lost patience; anger began to mingle with our fright.
One of us suggested—
“Put the flame of the candle under her chin.”
I did so; then she half opened one eye, a vague, dull eye with no expression in it.
I moved away the candle, and said—
“Will you answer me now, you old witch?”
The open eye closed again.
“Ah, this is too much,” cried the others. “Give her the candle again—she shall answer us.”
I put the flame again under her chin.
Then she opened both eyes slowly, and gazed upon us all round; then, bending her head abruptly, she blew out the candle with a breath that froze like ice; and at the same instant I felt, in the darkness, three sharp teeth pierce my hand.
I woke trembling, and bathed in a cold perspiration. The good old priest was seated by my side reading his prayer-book.
“Have I slept long?” asked I.
“My son,” replied he, “you have been sleeping an hour. They have brought your child to take leave of you, she is in the adjoining room. She is waiting for you, but I would not let them wake you.”
“My child, my child!” I exclaimed; “bring me my child!”
CHAPTER XLI
She is young and rosy, and has large eyes; she is a pretty child.
She wears a dear little dress that becomes her well.
I have taken her up in my arms, and placed her upon my knees, and kissed her hair.
Why is her mother not with her? She is ill, and her grandmother is ill too.
She gazed upon me with an air of astonishment; she permitted me to caress her, embrace her, and devour her with kisses, but from time to time she cast an uneasy look at her nurse, who was weeping in a corner of the room.
At last I was able to speak.
“Marie!” said I. “My little Marie!”
I pressed her tightly to my bosom; she pushed me away with a low cry.
“Oh, sir,” said she, “you hurt me.”
Sir! It was nearly a year since she had seen me. She had forgotten me. Words, face, speech, all were faded from her memory; and who would recognize me in this dress, with my beard and my livid complexion? Was I lost to the only one that I should have cared to remember me?
To be no more a father—to be condemned never to hear that word again from the lips of a child, that word which is so sweet, but which a man’s tongue cannot frame, “Papa.”
And yet to hear it once again from those lips, only once again, I would gladly have given the forty years of life that they were going to take away from me.
“Listen, Marie,” said I, joining her two little hands in mine. “Do you not know me?”
She looked at me with her beautiful eyes, and answered—“No.”
“Look at me well,” urged I. “Now who am I?”
“You are a gentleman,” replied she.
Alas! to love one creature so fondly in the world—to love her with all your passionate love, to have her with you to look into her eyes, and to hear her answer that she does not know you.
“Marie,” continued I, “have you a papa?”
“Yes, sir,” said the child.
“Well, where is he?”
She raised her great eyes full of wonder.
“Do you not know?” said she. “He is dead!”
Then she began to cry, and I almost let her fall.
“Dead,” repeated I. “Marie, do you know what it is to be dead?”
“Yes, sir,” answered she; “it is to be in the churchyard, and in heaven.”
Then she continued, “I pray to the good God for him night and morning at mamma’s knees.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Marie, say your prayers.”
“I must not, sir; prayers must not be said in the middle of the day; come this evening and I will say them to you.”
This was too much, and I interrupted her.
“Marie, it is I that am your papa.”
“Oh,” answered she.
I added—
“Do you not wish that I should be your papa?”
I covered her with tears and kisses. She endeavoured to disengage herself from my embrace, crying—
“Your beard hurts me.”
Then I put her once more upon my knees, and, looking into her eyes, asked her—
“Marie, do you know how to read?”
“Yes,” answered she, “I can read; mamma taught me my letters.”
“Come, read a little,” said I, showing her a paper that she had crumpled up in her hand.
She shook her little head.
“I can only read fables,” said she.
“Never mind, try, come, let us see.”
She unfolded the paper, and began to spell it out, pointing to each letter with her finger.
“S, E, N, sen; T, E, N, C, E–”
I snatched it from her hand. It was the sentence of death that she was reading to me, and her nurse had bought the paper for a penny. It would cost me more than that.
No words can describe my feelings. My violence frightened the child. She almost wept. Suddenly she exclaimed, “Give me back my piece of paper; I want it for a plaything.”
I gave her to the nurse. “Take her away,” I cried. Then I fell back in my chair, gloomy, worn-out, and desperate. Let them come now, I care for nothing; the last link that binds me to life is broken, they can do what they like with me.
CHAPTER XLII
The priest is kind, and the gaoler, too, has his tender side. I believe that they both shed a tear, as I told the nurse to take away my child.
It is over; now I have only to strengthen myself, and to think boldly of the executioner, of the cart, of the gendarmes, of the crowd on the bridge, of the crowd on the quay, of the crowd at the windows, and of that crowd which has assembled expressly for me on the Place de Grêve, which might be paved with the heads that have fallen there. I think that I have a whole hour to accustom myself to these thoughts.
