The priest caught me by the arm.
“Courage,” murmured he.
Then they brought a ladder to the back of the cart; an arm was stretched out to aid me in my descent. I took the first step, and attempted to take another—but it was useless, for on the quay, between two lamp-posts, I had caught sight of a terrible object.
It was the realization of all my terrors.
I staggered as though I had received a heavy blow.
“I have a last confession to make,” muttered I, feebly. They brought me here.
I asked them to let me write. They untied my hands; but the cord is here, ready for me, and the other horror is below, waiting for me.
A judge, a commissioner, or a magistrate—I know not which—came to me. I asked for a pardon, clasping my hands, and kneeling to them. With a calm smile, they asked me if that was all I had to say.
“My pardon, my pardon,” repeated I: “or five minutes’ more life, for pity’s sake! You do not know—it may be on its way, it may arrive at the last moment—such things have often been heard of before. And of what use will pardon be, sir, if I am no longer in a condition to benefit by it?”
That accursed executioner is whispering to the judge that it must be performed by a certain time, that the hour is at hand, and that he is responsible for its due performance; besides, it is raining, and there is a chance of the thing getting rusty.