To call a man a pig is the worst insult which could be offered by one man to another in the parish of St. Saviour’s. To be called a pig as you are going to die, is an offensive business indeed.
“I know you are going to kill me—that you can kill me, and I can do nothing,” was the master-carpenter’s reply. “There it is—a turn of the lever, and I am done. Bien sur, I know how easy! I do not want to die, but I will not squeal even if I am a pig. One can only die once. And once is enough.... No, don’t—not yet! Give me a minute till I tell you something; then you can open the gates. You will have a long time to live—yes, yes, you are the kind that live long. Well, a minute or two is not much to ask. If you want to murder, you will open the gates at once; but if it is punishment, if you are an executioner, you will give me time to pray.”
Jean Jacques did not soften. His voice was harsh and grim. “Well, get on with your praying, but don’t talk. You are going to die,” he added, his hands gripping the lever tighter.
The master-carpenter had had the true inspiration in his hour of danger. He had touched his appeal with logic, he had offered an argument. Jean Jacques was a logician, a philosopher! That point made about the difference between a murder and an execution was a good one. Beside it was an acknowledgment, by inference, from his victim, that he was getting what he deserved.
“Pray quick and have it over, pig of an adulterer!” added Jean Jacques.
The master-carpenter raised a protesting hand. “There you are mistaken; but it is no matter. At the end of to-day I would have been an adulterer, if you hadn’t found out. I don’t complain of the word. But see, as a philosopher”—Jean Jacques jerked a haughty assent—“as a philosopher you will want to know how and why it is. Carmen will never tell you—a woman never tells the truth about such things, because she does not know how. She does not know the truth ever, exactly, about anything. It is because she is a woman. But I would like to tell you the exact truth; and I can, because I am a man. For what she did you are as much to blame as she ... no, no—not yet!”
Jean Jacques’ hand had spasmodically tightened on the lever as though he would wrench the gates open, and a snarl came from his lips.
“Figure de Christ, but it is true, as true as death! Listen, M’sieu’ Jean Jacques. You are going to kill me, but listen so that you will know how to speak to her afterwards, understanding what I said as I died.”
“Get on—quick!” growled Jean Jacques with white wrinkled lips and the sun in his agonized eyes. George Masson continued his pleading. “You were always a man of mind”—Jean Jacques’ fierce agitation visibly subsided, and a surly sort of vanity crept into his face—“and you married a girl who cared more for what you did than what you thought—that is sure, for I know women. I am not married, and I have had much to do with many of them. I will tell you the truth. I left the West because of a woman—of two women. I had a good business, but I could not keep out of trouble with women. They made it too easy for me.”
“Peacock-pig!” exclaimed Jean Jacques with an ugly sneer.