“I started at the bar. I was under the orders of M. de Clavel, who
used again and again to repeat to me: ‘Grasp this maxim thoroughly:
The interests of the prisoner are sacred, the interests of society
are doubly sacred, the interests of justice are thrice sacred.’
Metaphysical principles had in those days more influence on men’s minds
than they have nowadays.”
“That’s very true,” said M. de Terremondre.
“They are carrying away a bedside-table, some linen, and a little
truck,” said Paillot. “These are doubtless articles to be used in
evidence.”
M. de Terremondre, no longer able to restrain himself, went forward
to watch the loading of the truck. Suddenly, knitting his brows, he
exclaimed:
“Sacrebleu!”
Then, seeing Paillot’s inquiring look, he added:
“It’s nothing! nothing!”
Cunning collector that he was, he had just caught sight of a water-jug
in _porcelaine à la Reine_ among the articles attached, and he was
making up his mind to inquire about it after the trial from Surcouf,
the registrar, who was an obliging man. In getting together his
collections he used artifice. “One must rise to the occasion,” he used
to say to himself. “Times are bad.”
“I was nominated deputy at twenty-two years of age,” resumed M.
Cassignol. “At that time my long, curly hair, my beardless, ruddy
cheeks, gave me a look of youth that rendered me desperate. In order
to inspire respect I had to affect an air of solemnity and to wear
an aspect of severity. I carried out my duties with a diligence
that brought its reward. At thirty-three years of age I became
attorney-general at Puy.”
“It is a picturesque town,” said M. Mazure.
“In the performance of my new duties I had to inquire into an affair
of little interest, if one only took account of the nature of the
crime and the character of the accused, but which had indeed its own
importance, since it was a matter that involved the death sentence. A
fairly prosperous farmer had been found murdered in his bed. I pass
over the circumstances of the crime, which yet remain fixed in my
memory, although they were as commonplace as possible. I need only say
that, from the opening of the inquiry, suspicions fell on a ploughman,
a servant of the victim. This was a man of thirty. His name was
Poudrailles, Hyacinthe Poudrailles. On the day following the crime he
had suddenly disappeared, and was found in a wine-shop, where he was
spending pretty freely. Strong circumstantial evidence pointed to him
as the author of this murder. A sum of sixty francs was found on him,
for the possession of which he could not account; his clothes bore
traces of blood. Two witnesses had seen him prowling round the farm on
the night of the crime. It is true that another witness swore to an
alibi, but that witness was a well-known bad character.
“The examination had been very well managed by a judge of consummate
ability. The case for the prosecution was drawn up with much skill.
But Poudrailles had made no confession. And in court, during the whole
course of the cross-examination, he fenced himself about with a series
of denials from which nothing could dislodge him. I had prepared my
address as public prosecutor with all the care of which I was capable
and with all the conscientiousness of a young man who does not wish to
appear unfitted for his high duties. I brought to the delivery of it
all the ardour of my youth. The alibi furnished by the woman Cortot,
who pretended that she had kept Poudrailles in her house at Puy during
the night of the crime, was a great obstacle to me. I set myself
to break it down. I threatened the woman Cortot with the penalties
attaching to perjury. One of my arguments made a special impression on
the mind of the jury. I reminded them that, according to the report
of the neighbours, the watch-dogs had not barked at the murderer.
That was because they knew him. It was, then, no stranger. It was the
ploughman; it was Poudrailles. Finally I called for the death penalty,
and I got it. Poudrailles was condemned to death by a majority of
votes. After the reading of the sentence, he exclaimed in a loud voice:
‘I am innocent!’ At this a terrible doubt seized me. I felt that,
after all, he might be speaking the truth, and that I did not myself
possess that certainty with which I had inspired the minds of the jury.
My colleagues, my chiefs, my seniors, and even the counsel for the
defence came to congratulate me on this brilliant success, to applaud
my youthful and formidable eloquence. These praises were sweet to me.
You know, gentlemen, Vauvenargues’ dainty fancy about the first rays of
glory. Yet the voice of Poudrailles saying, ‘I am innocent’ thundered
in my ears.
“My doubts still remained with me, and I was forced again and again to
go over my speech for the prosecution in my mind.
“Poudrailles’ appeal was dismissed, and my uncertainty increased. At
that time it was comparatively seldom that reprieves arrested the
carrying out of the death sentence. Poudrailles petitioned in vain for
a commutation of the sentence. On the morning of the day fixed for the
execution, when the scaffold had already been erected at Martouret,
I went to the prison, got them to open the condemned cell to me, and
alone, face to face with the prisoner, said to him: ‘Nothing can alter
your fate. If there remains in you one good feeling, in the interests
of your own soul and to set my mind at rest, Poudrailles, tell me
whether you are guilty of the crime for which you are condemned.’ He
looked at me for some moments without replying. I still see his dull
face and wide, dumb mouth. I had a moment of terrible anguish. At last
he bent his head right down and murmured in a feeble but distinct
voice: ‘Now that I have no hope left, I may as well tell you that I did
it. And I had more trouble than you would believe, because the old man
was strong. All the same, he was a bad lot.’ When I heard this final
confession I heaved a deep sigh of relief.”
M. Cassignol stopped, gazed fixedly for a long time at the knob of his
stick with his faded, washed-out eyes, and then uttered these words:
“During my long career as a magistrate I have never known of a single
judicial error.”
“That’s a reassuring statement,” said M. de Terremondre.
“It makes my blood run cold with horror,” murmured M. Bergeret.