rs in her
little tapestry salon. If she knew that I had raised my hand to murder
a man--oh! she would die of it! And I _am_ in prison, accused of
committing that crime! If I have not killed a man, I have certainly
killed my mother!"

Saying these words he wept no longer; he was seized by that short and
rapid madness known to the men of Picardy; he sprang to the wall, and if
I had not caught him, he would have dashed out his brains against it.

"Wait for your trial," I said. "You are innocent, you will certainly be
acquitted; think of your mother."

"My mother!" he cried frantically, "she will hear of the accusation
before she hears anything else,--it is always so in little towns; and
the shock will kill her. Besides, I am not innocent. Must I tell you the
whole truth? I feel that I have lost the virginity of my conscience."

After that terrible avowal he sat down, crossed his arms on his breast,
bowed his head upon it, gazing gloomily on the ground. At this instant
the turnkey came to ask me to return to my room. Grieved to leave my
companion at a moment when his discouragement was so deep, I pressed him
in my arms with friendship, saying:--

"Have patience; all may yet go well. If the voice of an honest man can
still your doubts, believe that I esteem you and trust you. Accept my
friendship, and rest upon my heart, if you cannot find peace in your
own."

The next morning a corporal's guard came to fetch the young surgeon at
nine o'clock. Hearing the noise made by the soldiers, I stationed myself
at my window. As the prisoner crossed the courtyard, he cast his eyes up
to me. Never shall I forget that look, full of thoughts, presentiments,
resignation, and I know not what sad, melancholy grace. It was, as it
were, a silent but intelligible last will by which a man bequeathed his
lost existence to his only friend. The night must have been very
hard, very solitary for him; and yet, perhaps, the pallor of his face
expressed a stoicism gathered from some new sense of self-respect.
Perhaps he felt that his remorse had purified him, and believed that he
had blotted out his fault by his anguish and his shame. He now walked
with a firm step, and since the previous evening he had washed away the
blood with which he was, involuntarily, stained.

"My hands must have dabbled in it while I slept, for I am always a
restless sleeper," he had said to me in tones of horrible despair.

I learned that he was on his way to appear b