“What’s that? A circumstance… what does it mean?”
“It means something that will lessen the crime in the eyes of the judge. Here is an example: A man steals; if it can be proved that he did it because he was in great poverty, because his children were starving, that would be an extenuating circumstance. In his case there’s nothing of the kind. It’s not even his first offense. That other robbery—he denies it—but— Well, well, I will do everything that can possibly be done.”
Françoise went home wearier and more heartbroken than ever, her mind tortured by those new words: “Extenuating circumstances.” How, where, could she find some excuse that would move the judges to clemency?… There was none. She could see nothing but the crime; nothing could lessen its horror.
The day of the trial came. She set out again, the last step in the ascent of her Calvary. In the train she prayed, invoking all the saints, while through her empty brain there resounded the words, so often repeated: “Extenuating circumstances… Extenuating circumstances…”
She waited in the dark, gloomy room with the witnesses who lowered their voices because of her presence. When her turn came she walked into the box with faltering steps, her eyelids blinking in the clear light, and in a moment her eyes were on her boy, who bowed his head over a handkerchief with big blue squares and burst into short, sharp sobs… She drew herself up stiffly and faced the judge.
She herself had asked to go into the witness box. Standing there, she wondered vaguely why she had insisted. She knew nothing at all about it; she had nothing to say. Why was she there?… For no reason at all except that she was his mother. Was it not she who had borne him… nursed him… caressed him… brought him up?… Was he not hers, her very own?… But no, not now; today he did not belong to her.
To all the questions she replied by signs or unintelligible words. There was dense silence in the court. An infinite pity went out toward the old, black-robed peasant woman, bowed by sorrow.
“He is your only child?” said the judge.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Did you have anything to complain of when he lived with you?”
“Oh no, Monsieur!”
“Had he any bad companions?”
“Never. His father, who was liked and respected by everyone, would not have allowed it… Neither would I… We were very highly thought of…”
“We know… we know…”
Then, turning to the prisoner:
“You knew it, too, and that is why, screening yourself behind the good reputation of your parents, you took advantage of your stay with your mother to commit robbery… How could anyone suspect the son of such honest people?… Others may be able to say: I am not wholly responsible. I lived with people who set me a bad example. You… you have no such excuse.”
At this the old woman seemed to make a violent effort. A strange light shone under the tear-swollen lids of her small eyes, and, her head bowed, without a gesture, in a voice that was almost steady, she spoke.
“Forgive me, Monsieur. I see I must tell you the truth. My poor lad is guilty of much, very guilty… But he is not the only one… I told you just now I had nothing to reproach myself with… I lied. That three hundred francs of the cooper’s, it was I who stole them, me… When my Jules came home at Easter, I told him I had done it… It frightened him, poor lad… he is very young… he saw his mother might lose her honor and her reputation… and it was to get the money back and stop my being arrested that he stole that other money… He was interrupted… he lost his head… and he struck the blow without knowing what he did.”
She was silent for a moment, out of breath: then went on in a lower tone:
“I lied… I am a wicked woman. It was I who set him the bad example… It is me you must arrest… Is that an extenuating circumstance for him?… Forgive me, Monsieur…”
More bowed than ever, the shoulders drooping, the head lower, she seemed to shrink to nothing…
The son escaped with hard labor for life. She—soon afterwards she died, scorned by all the village. They said a hasty mass for her and laid her in a remote part of the graveyard, a corner where even on the sunniest days the shadow of the church or belfry does not reach.
This story was told me by her grave, which had nothing to ornament it but a cross of weatherbeaten wood and a single wreath of rusty beads, twisted and broken, on which, however, I could distinguish the words:
“To Françoise Michon. From the judge who tried her son.”
The Confession
I STOOD STILL for a moment before the open door, hesitating, and it was only when the old woman who had been sent to bring me said for the second time, “It is here,” that I went in.
At first I could see nothing but the lamp screened by a lowdrawn shade; then I distinguished on the wall the motionless shadow of a recumbent body, long and thin, with sharp features. A vague odor of gasoline and ether floated round me. But for the sound of the rain beating on the slates of the roof and the dull howling of the wind in the empty chimney, the silence was death-like.
“Monsieur,” said the old woman gently as she bent over what I now saw was a bed, “Monsieur!… the gentleman you asked for is here.”
The shadow raised itself, and a faint voice said:
“Very well… leave us, Madame… leave us…”
When she had shut the door after her, the voice went on:
“Come nearer, Monsieur. I am almost blind, I have a buzzing in my ears, and I hear very badly… Here, quite close to me, there ought to be a chair… Pardon me for having sent for you, but I have something very grave to tell you.”
The eyes in the face that craned toward me were wide open in a sort of stare, and he trembled as he faltered:
“But first, are you Monsieur Gernou? Am I speaking to Monsieur Gernou, leader of the bar?”
“Yes.”
He sighed as if with relief.
“Then at last I can make my confession. I signed my letter Perier, but that is not my real name. It is possible that if Death, so near me now, had not already changed my face, you might vaguely recognize me… But no matter…
“Some years ago, many long years, I was Public Prosecutor for the Republic… I was one of the men of whom people say: ‘He has a brilliant future before him,’ and I had resolved to have one. I only needed a chance to prove my ability: a case at the assizes gave me that chance. It was in a small town. The crime was one that would not have attracted much attention in Paris, but there it aroused passionate interest, and as I listened to the reading of the accusation I saw there would be a big struggle. The evidence against the prisoner was of the gravest nature, but it lacked the determining factor that will frequently draw a confession from the criminal—or the equivalent of a confession. The man made a desperate defense. A feeling of doubt, almost of sympathy ran through the court, and you know how great the power of that feeling is.
“But such influences do not affect a magistrate. I answered all the denials by bringing forward facts that made a strong chain of circumstantial evidence. I turned the life of the man inside out and revealed all his weak points and wrong-doings. I gave the jury a vivid description of the crime, and as a hound leads the hunters to the quarry, I ended by pointing to the accused as the criminal. Counsel for the defense answered my arguments, did his best to fight me… but it was useless. I had asked for the head of the man: I got it.
“Any sympathy I might have felt for the prisoner was quickly stifled by pride in my own eloquence. The condemnation was both the victory of the law and a great personal triumph for me.
“I saw the man again on the morning of the execution. I went to watch them wake him and prepare him for the scaffold, and as I looked at his inscrutable face I was suddenly seized with an anguish of mind. Every detail of that sinister hour is still fresh in my memory. He showed no sign of revolt while they bound his arms and shackled his legs. I dared not look at him, for I felt his eyes were fixed on me with an expression of superhuman calm. As he came out of the prison door and faced the guillotine, he cried twice: ‘I am innocent!’ and the crowds that had been prepared to hiss him suddenly became silent. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Watch me die, it will be well worth while’… He embraced the priest and his lawyer… It appears that he then placed himself unaided on the plank, that he never flinched during the eternal moment of waiting for the knife, and that I stood there with my head uncovered. It appears… for I, I did not see, having for the moment lost all consciousness of external things.