Unfortunately I was not ill; therefore the next day I was obliged to
leave the Infirmary to return to my dungeon.
Not ill? No truly, I am young, healthful, and strong; the blood flows
freely in my veins; my limbs obey my will; I am robust in mind and body,
constituted for a long life. Yes, all this is true; and yet,
nevertheless, I have an illness, a fatal illness,--an illness given by
the hand of man!
Since I came out of the Infirmary a vivid idea has occupied me,--a
thought which affects me to madness; namely, that I might have escaped,
had they left me there! Those Physicians, those Charity Sisters seemed
to take an interest in me. “To die so young! and by such a death!” One
would have imagined they pitied me by their pressing round my bed. Bah!
it was curiosity! I have no chance now! My plea will be rejected,
because all was legal; the witnesses gave correct evidence, the counsel
pleaded well, the Judges decided carefully. I do not reckon upon it,
unless--No! folly; there is no hope. The plea is a cord which holds you
suspended over an abyss, and which you feel giving way at each instant
until it breaks. It is as if the axe of the Guillotine took six weeks to
fall.
If I could obtain my pardon!--my pardon! From whom, for what, and by
what means? It is impossible that I should be pardoned. They say _an
example is requisite_.