“Gilbert,” they said, “show yourself a man.”
“Yes, yes . . . but I have done no murder.... Why should I die?”
His teeth chattered so loudly that words which he uttered became unintelligible. He let the men do their work, made his confession, heard mass and then, growing calmer and almost docile, with the voice of a little child resigning itself, murmured:
“Tell my mother that I beg her forgiveness.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.... Put what I say in the papers.... She will understand.... And then....”
“What, Gilbert?”
“Well, I want the governor to know that I have not lost confidence.”
He gazed at the bystanders, one after the other, as though he entertained the mad hope that “the governor” was one of them, disguised beyond recognition and ready to carry him off in his arms:
“Yes,” he said, gently and with a sort of religious piety, “yes, I still have confidence, even at this moment.... Be sure and let him know, won’t you?... I am positive that he will not let me die. I am certain of it....”