“During the days that followed my thoughts were too confused for me to understand clearly why I was full of some trouble that seemed to paralyze me. My mind had become obsessed by the death of this man. My colleagues said to me:
“‘It is always like that the first time.’
“I believed them, but gradually I became aware that there was a definite reason for my preoccupation: doubt. From the moment I realized this I had no peace of mind. Think of what a magistrate must feel when, after having caused a man to be beheaded, he begins asking himself:
“‘Suppose after all he were not guilty!…’
“I fought with all my strength against this idea, trying to convince myself that it was impossible, absurd. I appealed to all that is balanced and logical in my brain and mind, but my reasonings were always cut short by the question: ‘What real proof was there?’ Then I would think of the last moments of the criminal, would see his calm eyes, would hear his voice. This vision of the scaffold was in my mind one day when someone said to me:
“‘How well he defended himself; it is a wonder he did not get off… Upon my word, if I had not heard your address to the Court I should be inclined to think he was innocent.’
“And so the magic of words, the force of my will to succeed were what had quieted the hesitations of this man as they had probably triumphed over those of the jury. I alone had been the cause of his death, and if he were innocent I alone was responsible for the monstrous crime of his execution.
“A man does not accuse himself in this way without trying to put up some sort of a defense, without doing something to absolve his conscience, and in order to deliver myself from these paralyzing doubts I went over the case again. While I reread my notes and examined my documents, my conviction became the same as before; but they were my notes, my documents, the work of my probably prejudiced mind, of my will enslaved by my desire, my need to find him guilty. I studied the other point of view, the questions put to the accused and his answers, the evidence of the witnesses. To be quite sure about some points that had never been very clear, I examined carefully the place where the crime had been committed, the plan of the streets near the house. I took in my hands the weapon the murderer had used, I found new witnesses who had been left out or neglected, and by the time I had gone over all these details twenty times I had come to the definite conclusion, now not to be shaken, that the man was innocent… And as if to crown my remorse, a brilliant rise in position was offered me! It was the price of my infamy.
“I was very cowardly, Monsieur, for I believed I did enough in tendering my resignation without assigning any reason for it. I traveled. Alas! forgetfulness does not lie at the end of long roads… To do something to expiate the irreparable wrong I had caused became my only desire in life. But the man was a vagabond, without family, without friends… There was one thing I could have done, the only worthy thing: I could have confessed my mistake. I had not the courage to do it. I was afraid of the anger, the scorn of my colleagues. Finally I decided that I would try to atone by using my fortune to relieve those who were in great trouble, above all, to help those who were guilty. Who had a better right than I to try to prevent men being condemned?— I turned my back on all the joys of life, renounced all comfort and ease, took no rest. Forgotten by everyone, I have lived in solitude, and aged prematurely. I have reduced the needs of life to a minimum… For months I have lodged in this attic, and it is here I contracted the illness of which I am dying. I shall die here, I wish to die here… And now, Monsieur, I have come to what I want to ask you…”
His voice became so low I had to watch his trembling lips to help myself to understand his words.
“I do not wish this story to die with me. I want you to make it known as a lesson for those whose duty it is to punish with justice and not because they are there to punish in any case. I want it to help to bring the Specter of the Irreparable before the Public Prosecutor when it is his duty to ask for a condemnation.”
“I will do as you ask,” I assured him.
His face was livid, and his hand shook as he gasped:
“But that is not all… I still have some money… that I have not yet had time to distribute among those who have been unfortunate… It is there… in that chest of drawers… I want you to give it to them when I am gone… not in my name, but in that of the man who was executed because of my mistake thirty years ago… give it to them in the name of Ranaille.”
I started.
“Ranaille? But it was I who defended him… I was…”
He bowed his head.
“I know… that is why I asked you to come… it was to you I owed this confession. I am Deroux, the Public Prosecutor.” He tried to lift his arms toward the ceiling, murmuring:
“Ranaille… Ranaille…”
Did I betray a professional secret? Was I guilty of a breach of rules that ought to be binding?… the pitiful spectacle of this dying man drew the truth from me in spite of myself, and I cried:
“Monsieur Deroux! Monsieur Deroux! Ranaille was guilty… He confessed it as he went to the scaffold… He told me when he bid me goodbye there…”
But he had already fallen back on the pillow… I have always tried to believe that he heard me.
The Test
NOT A muscle quivered as the man stood with his gaze fixed on the dead woman.
Through half-closed eyes he looked at the white form on the marble slab; milky-white it was, with a red gash between the breasts where the cruel knife had entered. In spite of its rigidity, the body had kept its rounded beauty and seemed alive. Only the hands, with their too transparent skin and violet fingernails, and the face with its glazed, wide-open eyes and blackened mouth, a mouth that was set in a horrible grin, told of the eternal sleep.
An oppressive silence weighed on the dreary, stone-paved hall. Lying on the ground beside the dead woman was the sheet that had covered her: there were bloodstains on it. The magistrates were closely watching the accused man as he stood unmoved between the two warders, his head well up, a supercilious expression on his face, his hands crossed behind his back.
The examining magistrate opened the proceedings:
“Well, Gautet, do you recognize your victim?”
The man moved his head, looking first at the magistrate, then with reflective attention at the dead woman as if he were searching in the depths of his memory.
“I do not know this woman,” he said at length in a low voice. “I have never seen her before.”
“Yet there are witnesses who will state on oath that you were her lover…”
“The witnesses are mistaken. I never knew this woman.”
“Think well before you answer,” said the magistrate after a moment’s silence. “What is the use of trying to mislead us? This confrontation is the merest formality, not at all necessary in your case. You are intelligent, and if you wish for any clemency from the jury, I advise you in your own interest to confess.”