A judge, a Commissioner, a Magistrate,--I know not what was his
rank,--has just been here.
I intreated him to procure my pardon; I begged it with clasped hands,
and dragging myself on my knees at his feet.
He asked, with a fatal smile, if that were all I had to say to him?
“My pardon, my pardon!” I repeated. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, five minutes
more! Who knows, my pardon may come. It is so horrible at my age to die
in this manner. Reprieves have frequently arrived even at the last
moment! And to whom would they show mercy, Sir, if not to me?”
That detestable Executioner! He came in to tell the Judge that the
execution was ordered for a certain hour, which hour was at hand, and
that he was answerable for the event.
“Oh, for mercy’s sake! five minutes to wait for my pardon,” cried I, “or
I will defend myself.”
The Judge and the Executioner went out. I am alone,--at least with only
two gendarmes present.
That horrible throng, with its hyena cry! Who knows but that I shall
escape from it, that I shall be saved? If my pardon,--it is impossible
but that they will pardon me! Hark! I hear some one coming upstairs!