The clock had just struck some hour,--I do not know which. I do not hear
the strokes plainly. I seem to have the peal of an organ in my ears. It
is the confusion of my last thoughts. At this final day, when I look
back over the events of life, I recall my crime with horror; but I wish
to have still longer to repent of it. I felt more remorse after my
condemnation; since then it seems as if there were no space but for
thoughts of death. But now, oh, how I wish to repent me thoroughly! When
I had lingered for a minute on what had passed in my life, and then came
back to the thought of its approaching termination, I shuddered as at
something new. My happy childhood, my fair youth,--a golden web with its
end stained. If any read my history, after so many years of innocence
and happiness, they will not believe in this execrable year, which began
by a crime, and will close with an execution. It would appear
impossible.
And nevertheless, oh,--imperfection of human laws and human nature!--I
was not ill-disposed.