The last day in the life of a person sentenced to death. Online reading of the book The Last Day of a Man Condemned to Death The Last Day of a Man Condemned to Death

Bicêtre

Sentenced to death!

I have been living with this thought for five weeks, alone with it; She doesn’t leave me for a moment, freezes me, bends me to the ground with her weight.

Once upon a time - it seems to me that not weeks, but years have passed since then - I was a person, like all people. For every day, for every hour, for every minute I had a new thought. My mind, fresh and young, was rich in inventions. He became more sophisticated, unfolding them in front of me in a chaotic and endless string, embroidering the rough and fragile fabric of life with new patterns. Girls' faces flashed there, magnificent bishop's vestments, won battles, noisy, burning lights theater halls, and again girls’ faces and solitary walks in the dark under the palmate branches of chestnut trees. The feast of my imagination never ceased. I could think about whatever I wanted, I was free.

Now I'm a prisoner. My body is shackled and thrown into prison, my mind is captive to one thought. A terrible, cruel, inexorable thought! I think, I understand, I realize only one thing: sentenced to death!

No matter what I do, the cruel thought is always here, nearby, like a depressing ghost, it is alone, face to face with me, the unfortunate one, it jealously drives away everything that can be distracted, and as soon as I turn away or close my eyes, its icy fingers shake me up She slips into all the dreams in which my imagination seeks refuge from her, echoes with a terrible refrain all the words addressed to me, together with me she clings to the hateful bars of the prison, gives me no rest in reality, lies in wait for my anxious dreams and then, in a dream, appears to me under the guise of a knife.

So I woke up in fright and thought: “Thank God, this is just a dream!” And what! Before I had time to lift my heavy eyelids and see confirmation of the fatal thought in the terrible reality surrounding me, in the wet and slimy slabs of the floor, in the dim light of the night lamp, in the rough fabric of the robe I was wearing, on the gloomy face of the guard, whose little frog glitters through the bars of the cell, I already fancied someone whispering right in my ear: “Sentenced to death!”

It was a clear August morning. Three days before, my trial began, and for three days in a row a cloud of spectators gathered every morning at the bait of my name and my crime and settled on the benches of the courtroom, like crows around a corpse; For three days in a row, a fantastic round dance of judges, witnesses, defense attorneys, and royal prosecutors continuously circled in front of me, sometimes caricatured, sometimes bloodthirsty, but invariably gloomy and ominous. The first two nights I could not sleep from excitement and horror; On the third I fell asleep from boredom and fatigue. I was taken away at midnight when the jury retired to deliberate. As soon as I found myself back on the straw of my prison, I immediately fell asleep in a deep sleep, the sleep of oblivion. This was the first rest in many days.

I was immersed in the deepest depths of sleep when they came to wake me. The tramp of the jailer's nailed shoes, the jingling of a bunch of keys, the piercing grinding of the bolt did not wake me up, as usual; I woke up only when the warden roughly shook me by the shoulder and roughly shouted in my ear: “Get up!” I opened my eyes and jumped up on my mat in fright. At that moment, through the high and narrow window of the cell on the ceiling of the corridor, which replaced the sky for me, I saw a yellowish glow - a sign of the sun for those who are accustomed to the darkness of prison. I love sun.

“The weather is good,” I said to the jailer.

At first he did not answer, as if he had not decided whether it was worth spending even one word on me; then he grumbled reluctantly:

- Anything is possible.

I did not move from my place, not yet fully awake, smiling and not taking my eyes off the light golden reflections on the ceiling.

“It’s a good day,” I repeated.

“Yes,” he answered, “they are waiting for you there.”

Like a web stopping the flight of a moth, these words immediately brought me back to merciless reality. As if in a flash of lightning, I saw a gloomy courtroom, a semicircle of the judge's table and on it a pile of bloody rags, three rows of witnesses, their stupid faces, two gendarmes at the two ends of my bench, I saw how black robes fussed, how a ripple passed over the heads of the crowd in in the dark depths of the hall, how the gaze of twelve jurors, who were awake while I slept, drilled into me.

I got up; my teeth were chattering, my trembling hands could not find my clothes, my legs were giving way. At the very first step I stumbled, like a porter under an unbearable load. Nevertheless, I followed the jailer.

Both gendarmes were waiting for me at the threshold of the cell. They handcuffed me again. There was a very tricky lock that took a long time to lock. I stood indifferently - the machine was being adjusted to the machine.

We walked through the courtyard. The fresh morning air cheered me up. I raised my head. The sky was blue, the hot rays of the sun, crossed by long pipes, lay in huge triangles of light over the high and gloomy prison walls. The weather was really good.

We climbed the spiral staircase; walked through one corridor, then a second, a third; then a low door opened in front of us. Hot air rushed out with noise and hit me in the face; it was the breath of the crowd in the meeting room. I entered.

When I appeared, weapons clanged and voices boomed. The benches moved with a roar; the fences began to crack; and as I walked through the long hall between two rows of soldiers and spectators crowding on both sides, I had a feeling as if all the threads that controlled these faces turned in my direction with gaping mouths converged on me.

Only then did I notice that I was not wearing shackles; but could not remember how or when they were removed.

Suddenly there was complete silence. I reached my place. At the very moment when the turmoil in the hall subsided, the turmoil in my thoughts subsided. I immediately clearly understood what I had only vaguely imagined before, I realized that the decisive moment had come - now the verdict would be pronounced on me.

Oddly enough, but then this thought did not terrify me. The windows were open, the air and noise of the city flowed freely into them; the hall was as bright as a wedding; cheerful rays of the sun traced here and there bright reflections of the window panes, now stretched out on the floor, now spread out on the tables, now bent at the corners of the walls; from the windows, from these dazzling rectangles, like from a huge prism, columns of golden dust stretched through the air.

The judges sat in front with a satisfied look - probably, they were glad that the case was nearing the end. The chairman's face, softly illuminated by the reflection of the window glass, was peaceful, kind expression; and a young member of the court; fiddling with his mandibles, he chatted almost cheerfully with a pretty lady in a pink hat who, by acquaintance, was sitting behind him.

Only the jury were pale and gloomy - presumably, they were tired from a sleepless night, some were yawning. This is not how people who have just received a death sentence behave; on the faces of these good-natured inhabitants I read only the desire to sleep.

Opposite me the window was wide open. I heard the flower sellers laughing on the embankment; and at the outer edge of the window sill, a yellow flower stretched out from a crack in the stone and flirted with the breeze, all saturated with sunlight.

Where could a gloomy thought come from in the midst of such caressing impressions? Drinking the air and the sun, I could only think about freedom; this shining day kindled hope in me; and I began to wait for the verdict as trustingly as a person waits to be given freedom and life.

Meanwhile my lawyer appeared. They were waiting for him. He had just had breakfast heartily and with gusto. Having reached his place, he leaned towards me with a smile.

“I hope so,” he said.

- Is it true? – I asked carelessly and also smiled.

“Well, yes,” he confirmed, “I don’t know their conclusion yet, but they will undoubtedly reject premeditation, and therefore we can count on lifelong hard labor.”

- What are you saying! – I was indignant. “Then death is a hundred times better!”

“Yes, death! By the way, I’m not risking anything by saying this,” an inner voice whispered to me. “After all, the death sentence must certainly be pronounced at midnight, by torchlight, in a dark gloomy hall, on a cold rainy winter night. But on a clear August morning, and with such a glorious jury, this is impossible!” And I again began to look at the yellow flower illuminated by the sun.

But then the chairman, who was only waiting for the lawyer, ordered me to stand up. The soldiers took guard; as if an electric current had passed through the hall - everyone stood up as one. A homely, ugly little man sitting at the table below the judge's table, obviously the secretary, began to read the verdict pronounced by the jury in my absence. Cold sweat broke out all over my body; I leaned against the wall so as not to fall.

- Defender! Do you have any objection to the application of punishment? – asked the chairman.

I could have objected to everything, but I couldn’t find the words. My tongue stuck to my larynx.

The defender stood up. I realized that he was trying to soften the jury’s conclusion and replace the punishment resulting from it with another, the one that he had just told me about, but I didn’t even want to listen.

How strong was my indignation if it broke through all the contradictory feelings that worried me! I wanted to repeat out loud what I had said to the defender earlier: death is a hundred times better! But I lost my breath, I just pulled the lawyer by the sleeve and frantically shouted:

The prosecutor challenged the lawyer's arguments, and I listened to him with stupid satisfaction. Then the judges left, and when they returned, the chairman read the verdict to me.

- Sentenced to death! - repeated the crowd; and when they led me away, all these people rushed after me with such a roar, as if a building was collapsing. I walked as if drunk, as if stunned. A complete revolution took place in me. Before the death sentence, I felt the beat of life like everyone else, I breathed the same air as everyone else; Now I clearly felt that a wall had grown between me and the rest of the world. Everything seemed different to me than before. Wide, light-filled windows, a wonderful sun, a cloudless sky, a touching yellow flower - everything faded and became white, like a shroud. And living people, men, women, children, crowding in my path, began to look like ghosts.

Below at the entrance a black, filthy carriage with bars was waiting for me. Before getting in, I took a quick look around the area.

- Look! Sentenced to death! - passers-by shouted, running towards the carriage. Through the veil, which seemed to stand between me and the world, I distinguished two girls, glaring at me with greedy eyes.

- Great! – the younger one exclaimed and clapped her hands. - It will be in six weeks!

Sentenced to death!

Well, what's wrong with that? “All people,” I remember reading in some book where there was nothing else remarkable, “all people are sentenced to death with an indefinite reprieve.” This means that nothing much has changed in my situation. From the moment the verdict was read to me, how many people died who were disposed to live long life! How many young, free, healthy people were ahead of me, gathering on the appointed day to watch my head be cut off on the Place de Greve! And how many of them are there who still walk, breathe fresh air, come and go as they please, and yet, perhaps, will get ahead of me!

And what do I especially regret in life? Indeed, the twilight and black bread of the dungeon, a ladle of thin stew from the prisoner's cauldron, rude treatment for me, accustomed to refined politeness, cursing of the jailers and overseers, not a single person who would want to exchange a word with me, a continuous inner shudder at the thought, what I did and what they will do to me for it - these are almost the only benefits that the executioner can take away from me.

No! It's still terrible!

The black carriage brought me here, to this vile Bicêtre.

From a distance it looks quite majestic. The entire building is located along the ridge of the hill, and when it rises in the distance, on the horizon, something of the proud pomp is still felt in it royal castle. But the closer you get, the more clearly the palace turns into a shack. Chapped roofs are an insult to the eye. The regal façade bears the mark of shameful decadence; the walls seem to be corroded by leprosy. There was no mirrored or plain glass left in the windows; they are covered with thick iron bars, against the frames of which here and there the wasted face of a convict or an insane person clings.

This is life when you see it up close.

Immediately upon arrival, I found myself in an iron vice. Extraordinary precautions were taken; I was not allowed a knife or fork when eating. They put me in a “straitjacket”, something like a canvas bag that restricted the movement of my arms; the prison guards were responsible for my life. I filed a cassation appeal. This means that they had to suffer with me for six or seven weeks in order to keep me safe and sound until the Place de Greve.

During the first days I was shown special courtesy, which was unbearable for me. The jailer's concern smacks of a scaffold. Fortunately, after a few days, old habits took over: they began to treat me as rudely as the rest of the prisoners, ceasing to single me out and throwing away the unusual politeness that constantly reminded me of the executioner. My situation has improved not only in this regard. My youth, humility, the intercession of the prison priest, and most importantly, a few words in Latin that I said to the gatekeeper and were not understood by him, had their effect: they began to let me out once a week along with other prisoners and freed me from the straitjacket that was shackling me . In addition, after much hesitation, I was allowed to have ink, paper, pens and a night light.

Every Sunday after mass, at the appointed hour for a walk, I am taken out to the prison yard. There I talk to the prisoners. There is no other way. Besides, these unfortunates are nice fellows. They tell me their tricks, which can be horrifying, but I know that they are just bragging. They teach me to speak in thieves' jargon, to “beat with a mallet,” as they put it. This is a real language, grown on the common language, like a disgusting lichen or wart. Sometimes he achieves a kind of expressiveness, picturesqueness, from which he takes in horror: “There is juice spilled on the tray” (blood on the road), “to marry a widow” (to be hanged), as if the rope on the gallows is the widow of all hanged people. There are two names for the thief’s head: “Sorbonne”, when it plots, ponders and suggests a crime, and “chock”, when the executioner chops it off; Sometimes this language reveals a playful twist: “willow shawl” is a junk dealer’s basket. “liar” – language; but more often than not, at every step, one comes across incomprehensible, mysterious, ugly, disgusting words that come from nowhere: “kat” - executioner, “luzka” - death. Every word sounds like a spider or a toad. When you listen to how this language is spoken, it seems as if dirty and dusty rags are being shaken out in front of you.

And yet these people are the only ones who feel sorry for me. The wardens, the watchmen, the gatekeepers, they talk and laugh and talk about me in front of me, as if I were an inanimate object, and I am not offended by them.

I decided like this:

Since I have the opportunity to write, why shouldn’t I take advantage of it? But what to write about? I am walled up in four bare cold stone walls; I am deprived of the right to move around and see the outside world, all my entertainment is all day long to unconsciously watch how a white rectangle slowly moves along the dark wall of the corridor - the reflection of a peephole in my door and at the same time, I repeat, I am always alone with a single thought, with the thought of crime and punishment, of murder and death! What can I say after this, when I have nothing else to do in the world? What can I squeeze out of my withered, devastated brain that is worthy of being written down?

Well! Even though everything around me is monotonous and gray, but inside me a storm is raging, a struggle is in full swing, a tragedy is playing out. And the thought that relentlessly haunts me every hour, every moment appears to me in a new guise, each time more terrible and bloodthirsty as the appointed day approaches. Why shouldn’t I, in my loneliness, tell myself, myself, about everything cruel and unknown that torments me? The material is undoubtedly rich; and no matter how short the duration of my life, there will still be so much mortal melancholy, fear and torment in it from now until the last hour that the pen will be used up and the ink will dry out. By the way, the only way to suffer less is to observe your own torment and distract yourself by describing it.

And then what I write down here may turn out to be quite useful. A diary of my suffering from hour to hour, from minute to minute, from torture to torture, if only I find the strength to bring it to the moment when it will be physically impossible for me to continue, this story, inevitably unfinished, but exhaustive, it seems to me, will serve as a big and serious lesson. How much instructive for those who pronounce the sentence will be in this account of the mortal languor of the human mind, in this continuous increase in torment, in this, so to speak, spiritual autopsy of the condemned! Perhaps, having read my notes, they will less easily decide next time to throw the head of a thinking being, a human head, onto the so-called scales of Justice? Perhaps they, poor fellows, have never thought about what a long series of tortures is contained in the short formula of a death sentence. Did they ever, even for a moment, delve into the unspeakable horror of the thought that the person they were beheading had a mind; a mind destined for life and a soul not reconciled with death? No. In all this they see only the fall along the plumb line of a triangular knife and have no doubt that for the condemned there is nothing before or after. These lines prove the opposite. If they are ever published, they will at least in a small way help to understand the torment of consciousness - something the judges are not even aware of. Judges pride themselves on being able to kill without causing bodily suffering. That's not all. How insignificant physical pain is compared to mental pain! And how pitiful, how shameful these kinds of laws are! The day will come when, perhaps, these sheets of paper, the last confidants of the unfortunate sufferer, will have their effect... Or maybe, after my death, the wind will scatter these scraps of paper rolled out in the dirt across the prison yard, or the gatekeeper will cover the cracked window of the guardhouse with them and they will rot in the rain .

Let what I write someday benefit others, let it stop a judge who is ready to condemn, let it save other sufferers, guilty or innocent, from the mortal torment to which I am doomed - what is this, why? What do I care? When my head falls, do I care whether others' heads are cut off?

How could I come up with such an absurdity? To destroy the scaffold after I myself have climbed onto it - pray tell, what benefit does this give me? How! The sun, spring, meadows strewn with flowers, birds waking up in the morning, clouds, trees, nature, will, life - all this is no longer for me? No! I need to be saved, me! Is this really irreparable and I will have to die tomorrow or even today, is there really no way out? God! From this thought you can smash your head against the wall of your cell!

Let's calculate how long I have left to live.

Three days after the verdict is passed to file a cassation appeal.

It takes a week for the so-called judicial acts to lie in the court office before they are sent to the minister.

They will lie with the minister for two weeks, who will not even know about their existence, but it is assumed that after consideration he will transfer them to the court of cassation.

There they will be sorted, registered, numbered; The demand for the guillotine is high and you won’t get there before your turn.

Two weeks to check so that the law is not violated against you.

Finally, the court of cassation usually meets on Thursdays, rejects up to twenty complaints wholesale and sends them to the minister, the minister, in turn, sends them to the prosecutor general, who then sends them to the executioner. This takes three days.

On the fourth day, the assistant prosecutor, tying his tie in the morning, realized: “We need to finish this case.” And then, unless the assistant secretary is invited by friends to breakfast, the order to carry out the sentence is sketched out, checked, whitewashed, sent, and the next day on Greve Square from early morning the sound of axes hammering together a platform can be heard, and at the crossroads they shout at the top of their voices hoarse heralds.

In total, six weeks. That girl said it right.

And I’ve been sitting here in Bicetre for five, if not all six - I’m afraid to count - it seems to me that three days ago it was Thursday.

I wrote a will.

Why, exactly? I was ordered to pay legal costs, and all my property will barely cover them. The guillotine is a big expense.

After me there will be a mother, a wife will remain, a child will remain.

A three-year-old girl, lovely, delicate, pink, with large black eyes and long brown curls.

When I last saw her, she was two years and one month old.

So, when I die, three women will lose a son, a husband, a father; they will become orphans, each in their own way, widowed by the will of the law.

Let's say I'm justly punished; but they, they, the innocent ones, did nothing. Doesn't matter; they will be disgraced, ruined. This is justice.

My soul aches not about my old mother; She is sixty-four years old and will not survive the blow. And if she lasts a few days, all she needs is a little hot ash in a foot warmer, she will accept everything without complaint.

My soul doesn’t hurt about my wife either; Her health is already compromised and her mind is upset. She, too, will soon die, unless she completely loses her mind. They say crazy people live long; but then at least they are not aware of their misfortune. Their consciousness is asleep, it seems to have died.

But my daughter, my child, my poor little Marie is now playing, laughing, singing, suspecting nothing, and my soul is breaking for her!

Here is a detailed description of my camera.

Eight square feet. Four walls of stone slabs meet at right angles to the floor slabs, which are raised a step above the outer corridor. When you enter, to the right of the door there is something like a niche - a parody of an alcove. An armful of straw is thrown there, on which the prisoner is supposed to rest and sleep, dressed in canvas pants and a teak jacket in summer and winter.

Above my head - instead of a canopy - is a black, so-called pointed vault, from which cobwebs hang in rags.

There is no window or vent in the entire cell. Only a door where the wood is completely covered with iron.

However, I was mistaken: in the middle of the door, closer to the ceiling, there was a nine-inch square hole with iron bars criss-crossed; At night the watchman can close it if he wishes. The cell opens onto a rather long corridor, which is illuminated and ventilated through narrow windows in the ceiling; this entire corridor is divided by stone partitions into separate rooms, communicating with each other through low arched doors and serving as something like hallways in front of solitary cells like mine. Convicts sentenced to disciplinary sanctions by the prison warden are placed in such cells. The first three cells are reserved for death row prisoners because they are closer to the warden's apartment, making it easier for him to supervise.

Only these chambers have been preserved intact from the old Bicetre castle, built in the 15th century by the Cardinal of Winchester, the one who sent Joan of Arc to the stake. I learned about this from the conversations of the “curious” who came here the other day and looked at me from a distance, like a caged animal. The warden received five francs for letting them in.

I forgot to say that there is a guard at the door of my cell day and night, and whenever I raise my eyes to the square hole in the door, they meet his eyes, relentlessly watching me.

However, it is believed that there is enough air and light in this stone bag.

While dawn is still far away, what to do with the night? One thought occurred to me. I stood up and began to move the night light along the walls of the cell. All four walls are covered with inscriptions, drawings, incomprehensible images, names that intertwine and obscure each other. Each condemned person must have wanted to leave a mark, at least here. There is pencil, chalk, and charcoal, black, white, gray letters; Often there are deep notches in the stone, and in some places the letters have turned brown, as if they had been drawn with blood. If I had not been absorbed in one thought, I would, of course, have been interested in this peculiar book, page after page unfolding before my eyes on every stone of the casemate. I would be curious to combine into a whole the fragments of thoughts scattered on the slabs; from each name to recreate a person; to restore meaning and life to these mangled inscriptions, torn phrases, cut off words, headless stumps like those who wrote them.

Above my headboard are two flaming hearts pierced by an arrow, and on top is the inscription: “Love to the grave.” The poor guy didn't make a long-term commitment.

Nearby, a small figure in the semblance of a cocked hat is clumsily drawn, and under it is written: “Long live the Emperor! 1824".

Then again flaming hearts with an inscription typical of a prison: “I love, I adore Mathieu Danvin. Jacques."

On the opposite wall is the name: “Papawuan.” The capital “P” is decorated with all sorts of curlicues.

Verse of an obscene song. A Phrygian cap, cut quite deeply into the stone, and under it: “Bories. Republic". That was the name of one of the four Larochelle sergeants. Poor young man! How vile are these notorious political demands! For the idea. For fantasy, for something abstract - the cruel reality called the guillotine! How can I, the accursed one, complain when I have committed a real crime, shed blood! No, I won't do any more research. I just saw a drawing made in chalk that made me feel scared - the drawing depicted a scaffold, perhaps right now being erected for me. The night light almost fell out of my hands.

I threw myself on my bed of straw and buried my head in my knees. But little by little my childhood horror passed, and morbid curiosity prompted me to continue reading this wall chronicle.

Near the name of Papawuan, I brushed away a thick, dust-shrouded cobweb that covered the entire corner. Under this web many names were found, but most of them left only stains on the wall, only four or five could be read without difficulty. “Dautain, 1815. – Poulain, 1818. – Jean Martin, 1821. – Castaigne, 1823.” Horrible memories are associated with these names: Doten is the name of the one who cut his own brother into pieces, and then wandered around Paris at night and threw his head into a pond and his body into a gutter. Poulain killed his wife; Jean Martin shot his old father as he opened the window; Castaigne is the same doctor who poisoned his friend: under the guise of treatment, he added poison to him; and next to these four is the terrible madman Papavuan, who killed children with a knife to the skull. “These are the kind of predecessors I had here,” I thought, shuddering all over. Standing here where I stand, these bloodthirsty killers were thinking out their last thoughts! In the cramped space under this wall, they rushed about like wild animals in the last hours! The intervals between their stays were very short; Apparently, this cell is not destined to be empty. Following their uneasy trail, I came here. And I, in turn, will follow them to the Clamart cemetery, where the grass grows so tall!

I am not a superstitious person and not prone to hallucinations. It is possible that such thoughts drove me to fever; only while I was absorbed in them, it suddenly seemed to me that the fatal names were written on the dark wall in fiery letters. My ears began to ring, my eyes became clouded with a bloody haze, and after that I imagined that the cell was full of people, strange people who were holding their own heads in their left hand, tucked under their lips, because no one had hair. And everyone shakes their fist at me, except the parricide. I closed my eyes in horror, but this made everything even clearer.

I don’t know whether it was a dream, fantasy or reality, but I would undoubtedly have gone crazy if some incomprehensible sensation had not sobered me up in time. I was already close to fainting, when I suddenly felt furry paws crawling on my bare leg and a cold belly - the spider I had disturbed was running away. This completely sobered me up. Oh, what scary ghosts! No, it was just a dope, the product of my devastated, tortured brain. Chimera in the spirit of Macbeth! The dead are dead, especially these ones. They are tightly walled up in a grave, in a prison from which you cannot escape. How could I be so scared? The coffin doors cannot be opened from the inside.

The other day I saw a disgusting sight.

Before it was dawn, the prison was filled with noise. Heavy doors slammed, bolts rattled, padlocks clicked, keys jingled from the guards' belts, the staircases shook from top to bottom under hurried footsteps, and voices echoed from end to end of the long corridors. My neighbors in the dungeon, who were serving their sentences, were more cheerful than usual. It seemed that all of Bicêtre was laughing, singing, fussing, and dancing.

I alone, silent among the general hubbub, motionless among the general running around, listened attentively and in surprise.

The warden walked by. I decided to call out to him and ask if today was a holiday in prison.

– Perhaps it’s a holiday! - he answered. “Today they will put shackles on the convicts, who will be sent to Toulon tomorrow.” Would you like to take a look? Have a little fun.

In fact, a lonely prisoner is happy with any sight, even the most disgusting. I agreed. Having taken, as required, measures to exclude the possibility of escape, the guard took me to a small empty cell without any furniture with a barred window, but with a real window from which the sky could be seen.

“Well,” said the warden, “everything can be seen and heard from here.” Here you will be like a king in his box.

When he left, he locked me with a key, a bolt and a padlock.

The window looked out onto a vast square courtyard, surrounded on all four sides, like a wall, by a huge stone building of seven floors. What a joyless sight this dilapidated, bare four-sided facade presented, with many windows covered with bars, against which on all floors pressed exhausted, deathly pale faces, one above the other, like stones in a wall, and each was served as a kind of frame by the iron bars of the bars. These were prisoners, spectators of the ceremony in which they would become participants sooner or later. So, it must be, the souls of sinners cling to the windows of purgatory overlooking hell.

Everyone silently looked into the courtyard, which was still deserted.

Everyone was waiting. Among the gloomy faces and dull glances, one occasionally came across sharp, lively eyes, burning like coal.

The rectangle of prison buildings surrounding the courtyard is not tightly closed. In one wing (the one facing east) there is an opening in the middle, blocked by an iron grating. Behind the bars there is a second courtyard, smaller than the first, but also surrounded by walls with darkened towers.

Around the entire main courtyard, along the walls there are stone benches. And in the middle there is an iron pole with a hook-shaped end, on which a lantern is supposed to be hung.

It was noon. The large gate hidden under the arch suddenly swung open. Rattling with iron, a cart rolled heavily into the yard, escorted by unkempt, repulsive-looking soldiers in blue uniforms with red shoulder straps and yellow bandages. It was the guards who brought the shackles. The rumble of the cart immediately caused an answering noise throughout the entire prison; the spectators, who until that moment had stood silently and motionless at the windows, burst into hooting, threats, curses - all this interspersed with verses of some songs and bursts of laughter that ached the heart. Instead of faces there are devilish haris. Their mouths twisted, their eyes sparkled, everyone shook their fist from behind the bars, everyone screamed something. I was shocked to see how many unextinguished sparks were hidden under the ashes.

Meanwhile, the police, among whom were several onlookers from Paris, noticeable by their neat dress and frightened appearance, calmly began to attack. One of them climbed onto the cart and began throwing chains, neck rings for the road, and piles of canvas pants to the others. Then they divided the work: some laid out long chains at the far end of the yard, calling them “strings” in their jargon, others unrolled “silks” right on the ground, in other words, pants and shirts; and the most experienced, under the supervision of their boss, a squat old man, checked the iron collars, tested their strength, knocking sparks out of stone slabs with them. The sarcastic cries of the prisoners were drowned out by the loud laughter of the convicts, for whom all this was being prepared and who were huddled at the windows of the old prison overlooking the small courtyard.

When the preparations were completed, a gentleman in a uniform embroidered with silver, who was called “Mr. Inspector,” gave some order to the warden of the prison; Not even a minute had passed when a horde of terrifying ragamuffins poured into the courtyard at the same time from two or three low doors. When they appeared, the hooting from the windows became even louder. Some of them - illustrious representatives of hard labor - were greeted with shouts of welcome and applause, but they took it for granted, with proud dignity. Many of the convicts dressed up in homemade, unusually shaped hats woven from prison straw, so that when passing through the cities, the hats would attract attention to themselves. The hat wearers received even more approval. A young man of about seventeen with a girlish face caused a special outburst of delight. He had just served a week in the punishment cell and there he wove himself a full suit from a bed of straw; he rolled into the yard like a wheel, showing snake-like flexibility. He was a street gymnast convicted of theft. He was greeted with a storm of applause and enthusiastic shouts. The convicts responded with the same shouts, and this exchange of pleasantries between the present convicts and the future convicts made one feel afraid.

Although society was present in the form of prison guards and horrified onlookers, criminal renegades brazenly defied it, turning cruel punishment into a family holiday.

As the convicts appeared, they were driven through two rows of guards into the second courtyard, where they had to undergo a medical examination. And then everyone made a last attempt to avoid being sent to hard labor, citing some kind of flaw: sore eyes, lameness, an injury to the hand. But in almost all cases they were found fit for hard labor; and everyone blithely submitted, immediately forgetting about the imaginary illness from which they supposedly suffered all their lives.

The lattice gate to the small courtyard swung open again; one of the guards began calling out names in alphabetical order; the convicts came out one after another, and each stood in the far corner of the large courtyard next to the one whom fate had appointed as his comrade only because their last names began with the same letter. Thus, everyone is left to his own devices; everyone is doomed to carry his chain side by side with a stranger; and if fate has given a convict a friend, the chain will separate them. This is the limit of adversity!

When there were about thirty people, the gates were closed. “The policeman leveled the entire row with a stick and threw a shirt, jacket and pants made of rough canvas in front of everyone, after which, at his sign, everyone began to undress. By an unforeseen accident, this humiliation turned into torture.

Until that moment the weather was tolerable; True, the sharp October wind brought on the cold, but from time to time it broke the gray veil of clouds, and the sun peeked through the gap. But as soon as the convicts threw off their prison rags and appeared naked before the watchful eye of the guards and the curious glances of strangers who examined them from all sides and were especially interested in their shoulders, the sky suddenly darkened and cold autumn rain poured down, flooding the rectangle of the yard, bare heads and naked bodies with streams of water. convicts and their wretched clothes spread on the ground.

In an instant, there was no one left in the prison yard except the convicts and the guards. Parisian onlookers hid under the awnings over the doors.

And the rain did not let up. On the flooded slabs of the courtyard now only naked convicts, soaked to the bones, stood. Gloomy silence replaced noisy enthusiasm. The unfortunates were trembling, their teeth were missing, their bony legs and knobby knees were knocking; It was painful to watch how they tried to cover their blue bodies with wet shirts, jackets and pants. Nudity would have been less pathetic.

Only one old man tried to sneer. Wiping himself with his wet shirt, he declared that “this was not part of the program,” then laughed loudly and shook his fist at the sky.

When they had dressed in traveling clothes, they were divided into groups of twenty to thirty people and led to the other end of the yard, where the shackles were already lying at the ready. The shackles are a long and strong chain, to which other, transverse, shorter chains are soldered at intervals of two feet, ending in a rectangular iron collar; The collar opens with the help of a hinge located in one corner, and is locked in the opposite corner with an iron bolt, which is riveted on the convict’s neck for the entire journey.

The shackles spread out on the ground closely resemble a fish skeleton.

The convicts were forced to sit directly in the mud on water-filled slabs and collars were fitted on them; then two prison blacksmiths, armed with portable anvils, fastened the bolts with cold rivets, beating them with all their might with an iron bar. This is a terrible test that makes the bravest pale. With each blow of the hammer on the anvil pressed to the martyr’s back, his chin twitches desperately: if he tilts his head a little, his skull will crack like a nutshell.

After this operation, everyone lost heart. Now all that could be heard was the clanking of chains and, from time to time, someone’s scream and the dull blow of a stick on the back of the recalcitrant. Some were crying: the old people were trembling all over and biting their lips. I looked with a shudder at the terrible profiles in an iron frame.

So, after a medical examination, an examination by the jailers, and after that, chaining. Three acts of tragedy.

The sun came out and seemed to light a halo around the heads of the prisoners. Everyone chained to five chains rose at once, in one convulsive movement. And everyone joined hands, so that a huge round dance suddenly closed around the lamppost. They were spinning so much that it dazzled your eyes. And at the same time they sang a convict song, a thieves' romance, and the melody was either plaintive or recklessly cheerful; from time to time squeals and abrupt, hoarse laughter were heard interspersed with mysterious words; then suddenly a furious cry arose, and the rhythmically clinking chains echoed this singing, cutting the ear more powerfully than the clanging of iron. If I had decided to describe the Sabbath, I would have depicted it exactly like this - no better and no worse.

A huge vat was brought into the courtyard. The guards broke up the dance with sticks and led the prisoners to this vat, where some greenery was floating in the steaming dirty liquid. They started eating.

Having eaten, they threw out the remains of the stew on the ground, threw away the crusts of pecked bread and resumed singing and dancing. They are said to be allowed to sing and dance all day and all night after they are shackled.

I watched this extraordinary spectacle with such greedy, such reverent and passionate interest that I even forgot about myself. I felt sorry for them to the core, and when they laughed, I wanted to cry.

And suddenly, through the deep thoughtfulness that took possession of me, I noticed that the screaming round dance had stopped and become silent. All eyes turned to my window...

- Suicide bomber! Suicide bomber! - everyone screamed in unison, pointing their fingers at me, and a joyful roar rose with redoubled force.

I froze in place. I have no idea how they knew me or how they could recognize me.

- Good afternoon! Good evening! - they mockingly shouted at me.

One of them, a very young boy with a sweaty, pimply face, sentenced to lifelong hard labor, looked at me with envy and said:

- Good for him! Chick and done! Goodbye, comrade!

It is impossible to describe what was happening inside me. In fact, I am their comrade. Place de Greve is akin to Toulon. Or rather, I am lower than them: they condescend to me. I shuddered.

Yes, their comrade! In a few days I myself could give them no worse a spectacle.

I froze at the window, without strength, without movement, as if paralyzed. But when all five chains advanced, rushed at me with cries of uninvited friendliness that I hated, when the clanging of shackles and stomping were heard right under my window, it seemed to me that this swarm of demons would now climb here, into my defenseless closet, and I screamed in despair He rushed to the door and began to shake it with all his might, but the door did not budge. The bolts were drawn from the outside. I knocked, I called for help. Meanwhile, the terrible screams of the convicts seemed to be getting closer. It seemed to me that their devilish faces were looking into my window, I screamed again and fell without; feelings.

When I woke up, it was dark. I was lying on a wretched bed; A lantern flickering from the ceiling illuminated the other beds, which stood in a row on either side of mine. I realized that I had been taken to the infirmary.

For several moments I lay with my eyes open, not thinking or remembering anything, just enjoying being in bed. Of course, in the old days I would have recoiled from such a hospital, prison bed with disgust and resentment; but now I have become a different person. The sheets were grayish and rough, the blanket was full of holes and thin; Straw was sticking out through the liquid fabric of the mattress - it didn’t matter! My body rested and basked on the rough sheets, and no matter how thin the blanket was, under it for the first time in a long time I stopped feeling the unbearable piercing cold. I fell asleep again.

A loud noise woke me up; It had just begun to get light. The noise came from the yard; my bed stood by the window, I stood up to see what had happened.

The window looked out onto a large prison yard. The yard was full of people; the disabled team, lined up in two rows, could hardly hold back the pressure of the crowd in order to clear the narrow passage through the entire courtyard. Between the trellises of soldiers, five long carts filled with people moved slowly, shaking on the cobblestones - they were taking away convicts.

The carts were without a canopy. There was a cart for each chain. The convicts sat sideways, on both sides of it, leaning against each other; they were separated by a common chain that stretched the entire length of the cart, and at the end stood an armed guard. The shackles clanked, with each push their heads jerked and their dangling legs swayed.

A fine, icy rain penetrated through the people; their canvas pants turned from brown to black and stuck to their knees. Water dripped from long beards and shaved heads; their faces turned blue; it was clear that the unfortunate people were trembling and grinding their teeth from rage and cold. At the same time, they were deprived of the opportunity to even move. Once a person is shackled, he becomes part of a terrible mechanism called a common chain, where everyone moves as one. The rational principle loses the right to exist, the iron collar dooms it to death; what remains is the animal, which is allowed to satisfy its wants and needs only at certain hours. So, sitting motionless, legs dangling helplessly, half-naked people with bare heads began a twenty-five-day journey on the same carts and in the same clothes - both in the heat of July and in the bad weather of November. Humanity seems to strive for heaven to share punitive functions with it.

A kind of dialogue took place between the crowd and those sitting in the carts: insults on the one hand, boasts on the other, and abuse on both sides; but the commander of the convoy made a sign, and blows with sticks fell indiscriminately on everyone who was sitting in the carts, on their heads and shoulders, and soon the appearance of calm, which is called order, was restored. However, the thirst for revenge burned in the eyes of the unfortunate renegades, and the fists lying on their knees clenched furiously.

Five carts, escorted by foot guards and mounted gendarmes, disappeared one after another under the high arch of the prison gates; they were followed by another, the sixth, on which cauldrons, bowls and spare chains were piled up interspersed. Several late guards ran out of the tavern and rushed to catch up with their squad. The crowd dispersed. Everything disappeared at once, like a fantastic vision. The rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves on the paved road to Fontainebleau, the cracking of whips, the rattling of shackles and the roar of the crowd, wishing the convicts an unhappy journey, gradually melted into the air.

And this is just the beginning for them! What was the lawyer talking to me about? About the galleys! No, no, death is a hundred times better! Better is the scaffold than captivity, better is non-existence than hell; It’s better to put your neck under Guillotin’s knife than under the iron yoke of hard labor. Good God, not the galleys!

Unfortunately, I was not sick. The next day I was taken from the infirmary and locked in prison again.

Not sick! No, I'm young, healthy and strong. Blood flows freely in my veins; all muscles obey all my whims; I am strong in spirit and body, created for a long life; all this is certain; and yet I am sick, mortally sick, and my illness is the work of human hands.

Ever since I left the infirmary, I have been tormented and driven crazy by one thought, a crazy thought, that I could have escaped if I had been left there. Both the doctors and nurses showed obvious interest in me. So young and doomed to such a death! They seemed to feel sorry for me, as they fussed around my bed. Eh! What's there! Just curiosity! And then these healers are obliged to heal from diseases, but not from a death sentence. How easy it would be for them! Just open the door! Such a waste of time!

Now there is not the slightest hope. My complaint will be rejected because everything was done according to the law; The witnesses testified correctly, the defense attorneys defended correctly, and the judges judged correctly. I don’t count on that, unless... No, nonsense! There is nothing to hope for! A cassation appeal is a rope that holds a person over an abyss and threatens to break every minute until it actually breaks. It’s like a guillotine knife has been held over your head for six weeks in a row.

What if they pardon me? They will have mercy! But who? Why? And how?.. They can’t have mercy on me. They say you need to set an example.

I only have three stages left: Bicêtre, Conciergerie, Place de Greve.

During the short time that I was kept in the infirmary, I managed to sit by the window in the sun - it appeared again, or rather, to learn from the sun what the bars on the window let through.

I sat with my heavy and stupefied head resting on my hands, which were too heavy for their burden, my elbows resting on my knees, and my feet resting on the crossbar of a chair, for I was so depressed that I was constantly bending and cringing, as if there was nothing left in my body. no bones, no muscles.

The stale air of the prison suffocated me more than ever, the clanging of shackles still sounded in my ears, Bicêtre became unbearable to me. The Lord God, I thought, could take pity on me and send me at least a bird so that it could sing a little on the roof opposite the window.

I don’t know whether God or the devil heard me, but almost at that very moment a voice sounded under my window - not a bird, no, much better: the clear, fresh, gentle voice of a fifteen-year-old girl. I perked up, raised my head and began to listen eagerly. The melody was slow and languid, similar to a sad and plaintive cooing; here are the lyrics:

On Rue Du Maille

I sewed myself into a trap.

The gendarmes caught

Hands tied.

I cannot express how bitterly disappointed I was; and the voice kept singing:

Handcuffed

And the conversation is over.

Thanks, on the road

A familiar thief was standing there.

Comrade, comrade,

I'll talk to you

Tell my girl

That I played the game.

Tell my girl

Let him not send money,

I killed a man

For a fat wallet.

For a watch with a chain,

For a hat and a coat,

For the dark night

What the hell.

Let him go to Versailles,

He will ask the king

Wouldn't he give me some leniency?

The killer, tru-la-la.

Let him submit a petition.

For this, my messenger,

I'll give her shoes

Commands before dawn

Let me dance my dance

Between heaven and earth. Translation Pavel Antokolsky.

I didn’t hear any more and was unable to listen. The half intelligible and half hidden meaning of this disgusting song is about the struggle of a robber with the gendarmes, about a meeting with a thief whom he sends to his wife with terrible news: I killed a man, and I was caught, “I was sewn up in a trap”; about a woman who hurried to Versailles with a petition, and about a king who became angry and ordered the criminal to “dance his dance between heaven and earth”; and at the same time the most tender melody, sung by the most tender voice that has ever lulled the human ear!.. I was numb, I was depressed, destroyed... Such vile words on rosy and fresh lips were unnatural. Like a slug's mark on a rose petal.

I am unable to convey my feelings; It was both painful and sweet for me to listen to the language of the den and hard labor, the cruel and picturesque dialect, the dirty jargon combined with a girl’s voice, the charming transition from the voice of a child to the voice of a woman! Hear these ugly, distorted words in the smooth, iridescent sounds of the song!

Oh, what a vile thing prison is! She poisons everything with her poison. Everything about it is dirty - even the song of a fifteen-year-old girl! If you see a bird there, there will be dirt on its wing; If you pick a beautiful flower, a stench emanates from it.

Oh, if I could escape from here, how I would run to the fields!

No, you shouldn't run. This will attract attention and arouse suspicion. On the contrary, you must walk in a hurry, raising your head, humming a song. It would be nice to get an old apron, blue with red stains. It's easier to slip through unnoticed. All the surrounding gardeners wear these.

Near Arqueil there is a dense forest, and next to it is a swamp, where, when I was in college, I went every Thursday with my schoolchildren to catch frogs. I can hide there until evening.

When it gets completely dark, I will move on. To Vincennes. No, you can't get there because of the river. Well, I'll go to Arpajon. “It would be better to turn to Saint-Germain and get to Le Havre and from there sail to England.” - Oh, who cares! Let's say I find myself in Longjumeau. A gendarme passes; asks me for my passport. - Everything is lost!

Oh, you unfortunate dreamer! First break down the three-foot-thick walls in which you are imprisoned. No, death! Death!

Just think that I came here, to Bicêtre, as a child, to look at the big well and the insane!

While I was writing all this, the light of the lamp dimmed, day came, and the clock in the prison bell tower struck six.

What does it mean? The guard on duty was just in my cell; upon entering, he took off his cap, asked for an apology for disturbing me, and asked, softening his rude voice as much as possible, what I wanted for breakfast...

A trembling took hold of me. Will it really happen today?

It will be today!

Now the warden himself came to see me. He asked how he could be useful or pleasant to me, since he wanted me to have no reason to complain about him or his subordinates, and sympathetically inquired how I was feeling and how I spent the night; in parting he called me “sir.”

It will be today!

My jailer believes that I have no reason to complain about him or his assistants. He is right. It would be bad for me to complain about them - they fulfilled their duty, vigilantly guarded me; and then they were polite when meeting and parting. What else do I need?

A virtuous jailer with a benevolent smile, with honeyed speeches, with the look of a flatterer and a spy, with large, fleshy hands is the personification of the prison. This is Bicêtre in human form. There is a prison everywhere around me; I see prison in all possible guises, in human form and in the form of bars and locks. Here the wall is a prison expressed in stone; here the door is a prison expressed in wood; and the guards are a prison transformed into flesh and blood. A prison is a terrible monster, invisible and perfect in its own way, in which a person completes the building. And I am his victim; it grabbed me and wrapped all its tentacles around me. It keeps me within its granite walls, under its iron locks, and guards me with its watchful eyes, the eyes of a jailer.

Oh my God, what awaits me, wretched one? What will they do to me?

I've calmed down. It's over, it's over forever. I overcame the severe confusion into which the caretaker's arrival plunged me. I admit, I still had hope then. Now, thanks to the Creator, I no longer hope.

This is what happened during this time. At that moment, when the clock struck half past seven—no, a quarter to seven—the cell door opened again. A gray-haired old man in a brown coat entered. He opened his coat. I saw a cassock and ruffles. It was the priest.

But not a prison priest. An ominous sign.

Father sat down opposite me, smiling welcomingly; then he shook his head and raised his eyes to the sky, or rather to the ceiling of the dungeon. I understood him.

- My son, are you ready? - he asked. I answered in a weak voice:

“I’m not prepared, but I’m ready.”

And at the same time, my eyes darkened, cold sweat appeared all over my body, my temples began to pound, and my ears began to buzz.

While I was swinging sleepily on my chair, the friendly old man was talking. At least it seemed so to me; As far as I remember, he moved his lips, waved his arms, and sparkled his eyes.

The door opened again. The rattle of the bolts brought me out of my stupor and interrupted his speech. Accompanied by the caretaker, a decent-looking gentleman in a black tailcoat appeared and gave me a deep bow. The face of this man, like the faces of the torchbearers, expressed official sorrow. He held a folded paper in his hands.

“Sir,” he turned to me with a courteous smile, “I am a bailiff at the Royal Court of Paris.” I have the honor to deliver you a message from Mr. Prosecutor General.

The first shock passed. My presence of mind returned completely.

“I remember Mr. Prosecutor General persistently demanded my head,” I answered. “I’m very flattered that he’s writing to me.” I hope my death will give him real pleasure. Otherwise, I would be offended to think that he pursued her with such fervor, but in fact he did not care.

“The sentence will be carried out on the Place de Greve,” he added, having finished reading and without raising his eyes from the stamped paper. – Exactly at half past eight we will leave for the Conciergerie. Your Majesty! I hope you will have the courtesy to follow me?

I stopped listening for some time now. The caretaker was talking to the priest; the bailiff did not take his eyes off the paper; and I looked at the door that remained half open... “Unhappy dreamer! There are four armed soldiers in the corridor!”

The bailiff repeated his question and this time looked at me.

- At your service! Whenever you wish! – I answered.

He bowed to me:

- In half an hour I will allow myself to come for you. After that I was left alone. Lord, just run away, run away in any way! I must get out of here, I must not hesitate for a moment. Through doors, through windows, through the roof, even leaving shreds of meat in the rafters!

About powerlessness; damn, devilish mockery! It takes months to break through this wall with a good tool, but I don’t have a nail or an hour of time!

From the Conciergerie

In the language of official papers, I have been transferred here.

However, my journey is worth describing. It had barely struck half past eight when the bailiff reappeared on the threshold of the cell.

“Sir, I’m waiting for you,” he said.

Alas! He wasn't the only one waiting for me!

I stood up and took a step; It seemed to me that I wouldn’t have enough strength for the second one - I felt such heaviness in my head and weakness in my legs. After a while I regained control of myself and walked towards the door with a rather firm tread. From the threshold I took one last look at my wretched camera. She became dear to me. I walked out, leaving it empty and unlocked. Unusual look for a dungeon.

However, it won't be empty for long. The watchmen said that this evening they were expecting a new guest, whom the jury was currently in a hurry to sentence to death. Around the bend in the corridor, the prison priest caught up with us. He was finishing breakfast.

When leaving the prison, the warden warmly shook my hand and reinforced my escort with four disabled people.

Some dying old man shouted to me from the threshold of the infirmary:

- Goodbye!

When we found ourselves in the yard, I took a deep breath and felt better.

But we didn't have to walk in the fresh air for long. In the first courtyard stood a carriage drawn by post horses, the same one that brought me here - it was an oblong gig, divided across by a wire fence, as thick as knitting. Each compartment has doors, one in the front and one in the back. And everything in general is so dirty, greasy, and dusty that the funeral cart for the poor will seem like a coronation carriage in comparison with this rag.

Before I was swallowed up by this crypt on two wheels, I looked around the yard with a farewell glance, full of such despair that should have crushed the walls. The courtyard, which was a small area lined with trees, was crowded with even more onlookers than on the day when the convicts were taken away. And now there’s a crowd! As then, the autumn rain was drizzling, fine and cold; it is going on now, while I am writing these lines, and will probably continue to go on all day, which will end after me.

The roads were washed out, the yard was covered in puddles. I enjoyed watching the crowd trample in the mud.

We sat down, the bailiff and one of the gendarmes - in the first compartment, I, along with the priest and another gendarme - in the second. Four mounted gendarmes surrounded the carriage. So, not counting the coachman, eight people for one.

As I got into the carriage, I heard an old woman with faded eyes say to the crowd:

- This is much funnier than convicts.

I understand her. This is a sight that you capture immediately, with one glance. It's just as entertaining, but easier to watch. Nothing distracts or dissipates attention. There is only one participant, and in him alone is concentrated as much misfortune as in all the convicts put together. This is a condensed and therefore especially spicy infusion.

The carriage started moving. She rolled loudly under the arch of the main gate, then drove out into the alley, and the heavy doors of Bicetre slammed shut behind her. I froze in a daze and only felt that I was being carried, like a person who has fallen into a lethargic sleep feels that he is being buried alive, and can neither move nor scream. I vaguely heard the abrupt jingling of the strings of bells around the necks of the post horses, the wheels rattling over stones or hitting the body on potholes, the hooves of the gendarmerie horses clattering around the cart, the crack of the whip. All this merged into one whirlwind that carried me away.

Through the bars of the little window opposite me, I saw the inscription carved in large letters above the main gate of Bicêtre, and mechanically I read it: “Refuge for the Elderly.”

“This is how,” I thought, “it turns out that people here live to old age.”

And as happens when half asleep, my brain, constrained by suffering, occupied itself with this thought and began to rethink it in every way. But then the carriage turned from the alley onto the road, and the picture in the window changed. The towers of Notre Dame Cathedral now appeared in it, slightly blue, half erased in the haze that enveloped Paris. And immediately, mechanically following the movement of the carriage, my thoughts changed. Now I was thinking not about Bicêtre, but about the towers of the Cathedral of Our Lady. “Those who climb the tower where the flag is raised will have a very good view,” I said to myself, smiling meaninglessly.

It seems that it was at that moment that the priest spoke to me again. I listened to him patiently. The wheels were already rumbling in my ears, the hooves were clattering, the whip was cracking. And now there’s more extra noise, that’s all.

I silently endured this monotonous stream of words, which lulled my brain like the murmur of a fountain, and slid past me, as if different and at the same time the same, like twisted elms along the road, when suddenly the creaking, stuttering voice of a bailiff brought me out of oblivion.

– What do you say, Monsieur Abbot, what’s new? – he turned to the priest in an almost cheerful tone.

He himself was incessantly telling me something and, not hearing his words due to the roar of the wheels, did not answer anything.

“And all the potholes,” he continued, “shakes so much that you can’t hear yourself.” What the hell was I talking about? Would you be so kind as Monsieur Abbe, remind me what I was talking about? Yes, do you know the latest news from Paris?

I shuddered with my whole body, as if they were talking about me.

“No,” answered the priest, who finally heard him, “I didn’t have time to read the newspapers this morning.” I'll read it in the evening. When I have a busy day, like today, I ask the gatekeeper to save the newspapers for me and, when I return, I look through them.

- What do you! It is impossible that such news did not reach you! Fresh Parisian news! This is where I entered the conversation:

“I think I know her.” The bailiff looked at me.

- You? Indeed! And what is your opinion?

-You are too curious.

- Why? - the bailiff objected. – Everyone has their own political beliefs. I respect you so much that I have no doubt that you have them too. I personally wholeheartedly support the restoration of the National Guard. I was a sergeant in the company, and, really, it’s nice to remember those times.

“I thought we were talking about something completely different,” I interrupted.

– What else? You said you knew the latest news.

– I meant another piece of news that is also occupying Paris today.

The fool did not understand me: his curiosity was inflamed.

- Another? Who the hell is telling you the latest news? For God's sake. tell me, what kind of news is this? Don’t you know, Monsieur Abbot? Maybe you know better than me? I beg you to share with me. I love the news so much. I am entertaining Mr. Chairman with them.

He kept mumbling something like that for a long time. And at the same time he turned to me, then to the priest, and I just shrugged my shoulders in response.

- Tell me, what are you thinking about? - he got angry.

“I was thinking about something that I won’t think about again tonight,” I answered.

- Oh, that's what it's about! - he drawled. - Come on, there’s no need to be sad! Mister Castaigne was talking all the time.

After being silent for a while, he spoke again:

“I also accompanied Mister Papavuan; he was wearing a beaver hat and smoking a cigar. The Larochelle young people talked only to each other. But they still talked!

He paused for a while and began again:

- Crazy people! Dreamers! To listen to them, they despised everyone in the world. But you, young man, are thinking in vain.

- Young man! No, I'm older than you; “Every quarter of an hour that passes ages me by a year,” I answered.

He turned around, looked at me with dull bewilderment for several minutes, then laughed roughly.

- Yes, you are laughing! Is older than me! I'm old enough to be your grandfather.

- And I don’t think I’m laughing! – I answered very seriously.

He opened the snuff box.

- No need to be offended, dear sir! Help yourself to some tobacco and don’t remember me in a bad way.

“Don’t be afraid, I won’t have to remember it for long.” While handing me the snuff-box, he came across the mesh separating us. From the push, the snuffbox hit the net and rolled open at the feet of the gendarme.

- Damn mesh! - exclaimed the bailiff.

And he turned to me:

- Think, what a disaster! I lost all the tobacco.

“I have more to lose than you,” I answered with a smile. He tried to collect the tobacco, grumbling through his teeth:

- More than mine! Easy to say! All the way to Paris, please sit without tobacco. How does it feel, huh?

Then the priest turned to him with words of consolation. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t listen well, but it seemed to me that he was continuing the same admonitions that were first poured out on me. Little by little, a conversation began between the priest and the bailiff; I let them speak their minds, and I thought my own thoughts.

As we approached the city, although I was absorbed in my thoughts, I noticed that Paris was noisier than usual. The carriage stopped at the outpost. City toll collectors looked into it. If they were transporting a bull or a ram to slaughter, they would have to fork out money; but no fees are paid for a human head. They let us through.

Having passed the boulevard, the carriage quickly rolled along the ancient crooked alleys of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau and the Ile de la Cité, which twist and intersect like countless passages in an anthill. In these narrow streets the rumble of wheels on stones was so loud that the noise from outside stopped reaching me. When I looked out the square window, it seemed to me that the stream of passers-by stopped at the sight of the carriage, and flocks of children ran after it. It also seemed to me that here and there at the crossroads there was a ragamuffin or an old woman in rags, and sometimes both together, and as if they were holding stacks of printed sheets, over which passers-by were fighting among themselves, their mouths wide open, probably shouting something... That.

The minute we entered the courtyard of the Conciergerie, the clock of the Palace of Justice struck half past eight. When I looked at the wide staircase, the gloomy chapel and the ominous arched doors, my blood froze in my veins. When the carriage stopped, it seemed to me that my heart would also stop now.

I gathered all my strength; the door quickly swung open, I jumped out of this prison on wheels and quickly walked through the gate between two rows of soldiers. However, the crowd had already gathered in my way.

Walking through the public galleries in the Palace of Justice, I felt almost free and independent, but all my cheerfulness disappeared as soon as low doors, secret staircases, internal passages, blind, closed corridors where only judges and convicts have access opened before me .

The bailiff did not leave me, the priest left, promising to return in two hours - he was busy with his own business.

I was taken to the office of the prison warden, to whom the bailiff handed me over hand to hand, as an exchange. The keeper asked him to wait a minute, because they would now have new “game” that would have to be immediately transported on the return flight to Bicêtre. In all likelihood, the conversation was about who was to be sentenced today and who would sleep that night on an armful of straw, which I did not have time to fully knead.

“That’s great,” the bailiff said to the caretaker, “I’ll wait, and we’ll draw up both protocols at the same time.”

For now, I was placed in a closet adjacent to the caretaker's office. Here I was left alone behind strong locks.

I don’t know what I was thinking about or how long I stayed like that when an unexpected loud burst of laughter brought me out of my thoughts.

I shuddered and raised my head. It turned out that I was not alone. In the cell, besides me, there was a man of about fifty-five, of average height, hunched over, wrinkled, with gray hair, with colorless eyes looking from under his brows, with a grimace of evil laughter on his face. All dirty, half naked, in rags, his very appearance inspired disgust. So the door was opened and locked again, pushing him in; but I didn't notice anything. If only death had come the same way!

We stared at each other for a few moments. The new newcomer still had the same hoarse, groan-like laugh, and I was surprised and frightened.

- Who are you? – I finally asked.

- That's the question! - he answered. - Like who? Baked!

- Baked! What does it mean? My question made him laugh even more.

“This means that the cat will mow down my sorbonne in six weeks, like your log in six hours,” he answered through laughter. - Hey! Apparently, he figured it out!

In fact, I turned pale, the hair stood up on my head. This was the second death row condemned today, the one who was expected in Bicêtre, my successor.

He continued:

- There's nothing you can do about it! Here I will tell you my life. My father was a nice guy Thief. (Author's note.); it's a pity that Charlot Executioner. (Author's note.) He spared no effort and tightened his tie. This happened at a time when the gallows reigned by the grace of God. At the age of six I was left an orphan; in the summer I wheeled around in the dust, along the side of the road, so that they would throw me a copper from the window of the post coach; in winter he splashed barefoot in the mud and blew on his fingers, red from the cold; through the holes in the pants, bare thighs were visible. From the age of nine I used a rake Hands. (Author's note.), learned how to clean screens Pockets. (Author's note.), it happened to me to whistle and clothes, by the age of ten I became a clever thief. Then I got into the company: at the age of seventeen I was already a real thug - I knew how to clean out a shop and forge a key. They grabbed me and, as an adult, they sent me to sail in the galleys.” It’s a hard thing - you sleep on bare boards, drink clean water, eat black bread, drag a heavy cannonball behind you without any benefit - you get either sunstroke or blows from sticks. In addition, convicts are shaved bald, and as luck would have it, I had good brown curls! After all, I served my time. Fifteen years is no joke. I was thirty-two years old when I received my travel allowance and sixty-six francs - all that I had earned in fifteen years of hard labor, working sixteen hours a day, thirty days a month and twelve months a year. All the same, with these sixty-six francs I wanted to start an honest life, and under my rags hid such noble feelings that you will not find under a boar's robe Priest's cassock. (Author's note.). That's just a damn passport! It was yellow and had the inscription on it: convict who has served his time. This thing had to be shown on the road in every town, and then every week I had to show up with it to the mayor of the town where I was settled. Not a bad certification. Convict! I was a scarecrow - the kids ran away from me, doors slammed in front of me. Nobody wanted to give me a job. Sixty-six francs came to an end. How to live further? I showed what strong working hands I had, and they slammed doors in my face. I offered to work for fifteen, ten, five sous a day. All in vain. What to do? One day hunger overcame me. I smashed the bakery window with my elbow and grabbed the bread, and the baker grabbed me. They didn’t let me eat any bread, but they sentenced me to lifelong hard labor and burned three letters on my shoulder. If you want, I'll show you later. In judicial terms this is called relapse. So I became reverse fillySent to hard labor again. (Author's note.). I decided to run. To do this, I needed to drill through three walls and saw through two chains, and I had nothing but a nail. And I ran. They gave a signal from a cannon in pursuit; our brethren are like the Roman cardinals: we are also dressed in red, and when we set sail, they also fire from cannons. However, gunpowder was wasted. This time I left without a yellow ticket, but also without money. I met my comrades - some served their sentences, others gave up their sentences. Their leader invited me to work together, and they worked with a knife on the main road. I agreed and began to kill to live. Either you will attack a stagecoach, then a postal carriage, or a horseman - a cattle dealer. The money was taken, the horse or team was released on all four sides, and the dead man was buried under a tree and only made sure that his legs did not stick out. Then they danced on the grave to trample the earth. So I grew old - I huddled somewhere in a thicket, slept in the open air, and even though I was hunted and driven from forest to forest, I was still a free bird, my own master. However, everything comes to an end. One fine night the lacemakers Gendarmes. (Author's note.) covered us. Fanandeli Comrades. (Author's note.) mine disappeared, and I was the oldest and fell into the clutches of these same cats in hats with braid. I was brought here. I completed all the steps except the last one. And now it didn’t matter whether I stole a handkerchief or killed a person - unless I got an extra relapse. All I have to do is pass through the hands of the mower Executioner. (Author's note.). My case was completed in an instant. And to tell the truth, I’ve already become old, I’m not fit for anything worthwhile. My father married a widow He was hanged. (Author's note.), and I will retire to the abode of all who mourn and joy! To the guillotine. (Author's note.) That's right, brother!

I was stunned by his story. He laughed louder than before and tried to take my hand. I recoiled in horror.

“Apparently, my friend, you are not one of the brave ones,” he said: “Make sure you don’t become limp in front of the snub nose.” Needless to say, it’s not easy to stand on the platform, but not for long! I'd love to come with you and show you how to tumble better. Yes, by God, I would not file a cassation case if we were mowed down together today. By the way, they would have invited the priest one for two; I could have had enough of your scraps. You see how flexible I am. Well, answer? Agree? I offer it from the bottom of my heart!

He came even closer.

“Thank you,” I replied, pushing him away.

In response - a new burst of laughter.

- Hey-hey! Your honor, apparently, is from the marquises, no less than from the marquises!

“My friend, don’t touch me, I want to be alone with myself,” I interrupted him.

He immediately became quiet and thoughtful, shaking his gray, bald head. Then he scratched his hairy chest with his nails, visible from under his open shirt, and muttered through his teeth:

- It’s clear, there’s a wild boar here Priest. (Author's note.)... - After a moment of silence, he added in an almost timid tone: - Listen, even though you are a marquis, why do you need such a good frock coat? The executioner will take him anyway. It would be better if they gave it to me. I'll take it down and buy myself some tobacco.

I took off my coat and gave it to him. He was as happy as a child and clapped his hands. But, noticing that I was wearing only a shirt and that I was shaking all over, he said:

-You're frozen. Here, put this on, otherwise you'll get wet, it's raining. And then, in the cart you need to look decent.

He took off his thick gray wool jacket and put it on me. I did not argue, but immediately hastened to move back to the wall itself. It is difficult to describe how this man made me feel. He looked at my coat and exclaimed enthusiastically every second:

- The pockets are intact! The collar is not worn at all! I will never take less than fifteen francs. I'll stock up on tobacco for the entire six weeks! What happiness!

The door opened again. They came for both of us. Follow me to take him to the room where the condemned are waiting for their lesson, and follow him to send him to Bicêtre. He took his place in the middle of the convoy and, laughing, said to the gendarmes:

- Just don't make a mistake. This gentleman and I swapped skins. Make sure you don't take me instead. But now you’re being naughty! I don't agree, since I'll have tobacco!

I didn’t even think of giving my coat to this old robber; he took it from me, and in return left me his vile jacket. Who will I look like in this rags?

It was not at all out of carelessness or pity that I allowed him to take my coat; no, he was simply stronger. If I refused, he would beat me with his fists.

Another thing – it’s a pity! Anger bubbled up inside me. I was ready to strangle and trample this old thief with my own hands.

My soul is full of anger and bitterness. The bile must have flowed inside me. Death makes you evil.

I was taken to a cell where, apart from four bare walls, there was nothing, not counting, of course, countless iron bars on the window and countless locks on the door.

I demanded a table, a chair and writing materials. They brought everything to me.

Then I demanded a bed. The warden looked at me with a surprised look that clearly said: “What is this for?”

Nevertheless, they placed a folding bed in the corner. But at the same time, a gendarme settled in this room, which is called “my room”. That's right, they are afraid that I will suffocate myself with the mattress.

It's ten o'clock now.

My poor daughter! In six hours I'll be gone! I will turn into the carrion that is scattered on the cold tables of the anatomical theater. Here they will take a cast of the head, there they will open the body, fill the coffin with the remains and send it all together to the Clamart cemetery.

This is what people will do to your father, and yet not one of them hates me, they all feel sorry for me, and all of them could have saved me. And they will kill me. Do you understand, Marie? They will kill in cold blood, according to all the rules, in the name of the triumph of justice. Good God!

Poor thing! They will kill your father, the one who loved you so much, who kissed your tender, fragrant neck, who tirelessly fingered your fluffy curls, who caressed your sweet face, who rocked you on his knees, and in the evenings folded your hands for prayer!

Who will love you now? Who will love you? All your little peers will have a father, but not you. How will you, my baby, get out of the habit of New Year's gifts, beautiful toys, sweets and kisses? How will you get out of the habit, poor orphan, of drinking and eating your fill?

Ah, if the jury had seen her, my dear Marie, they would have understood that it is impossible to kill the father of a three-year-old baby!

And when she grows up, if she is destined to survive, what will become of her? The Parisian mob will remember her father. And she, my daughter, will have to blush for me, for my name, she will be despised, humiliated, they will abhor her, because of me, because of me, who loves her with all my strength, with all the tenderness of my soul. My beloved baby! My Marie! Will the memory of me really be shameful and hateful for you? What a crime have I committed, the accursed one, and what a crime am I pushing society into committing!

God! Is it really true that I will die before evening? Me, this same me? And the dull hum of voices coming from the courtyard, and the lively crowds of people already hurrying on the embankments, and the gendarmes who are getting ready in their barracks, and the priest in a black cassock, and the man whose hands are red with blood - all this is because of me ? And I must die! I, the me that is here, living, moving, breathing, sitting at a table that looks like any other table in any other place; that me, finally, whom I touch and feel, whose clothes lie in such folds!

At least know how it works, how people die under it! The horror is that I don't know. The name itself is scary - no, I don’t understand how I could write and pronounce it.

These nine letters seem to have been deliberately chosen so that by their appearance, by their appearance, they would suggest a cruel thought; the damned doctor, the inventor of this thing, had a truly fatal name.

I have a very unclear and indefinite, but even more terrible, idea associated with this hated word. Each syllable is exactly a part of the machine itself. And in my mind I endlessly build and destroy a monstrous structure.

I’m afraid to ask, but not knowing what it is like and how it’s done is doubly unbearable. They say it operates with the help of a lever, and the person is placed on his stomach. God! My head will turn gray before it's cut off!

However, I somehow saw her fleetingly.

I was driving in a carriage along Place de Greve at about eleven in the morning. The carriage suddenly stopped. I leaned out the window. The crowd blocked the square and the embankment, the entire parapet was occupied by women and children. Above their heads could be seen a platform made of reddish boards, which was put together by three people.

On that day, someone sentenced to death was to be executed, and a car was being prepared for him. I quickly turned away so as not to see her.

Near the carriage the woman said to the child:

- Look! To make the knife move better, they lubricate the grooves with candle lard.

This is probably what they are doing now. It just struck eleven. They must be lubricating the grooves with lard.

No, today I, the unfortunate one, cannot turn away.

Oh, if only they would have mercy on me! If only they had mercy! Maybe I'll be pardoned. The king is not angry with me. Call my lawyer. Call me soon! I agree to hard labor. Let them be sentenced to five years or twenty, let them be sentenced to hard labor for life, let them be branded. If only they would have left their lives!

After all, a convict also walks, moves, and also sees the sun.

The priest came again. He is white as a harrier, friendly, respectable and meek in appearance; he is truly a worthy, kind-hearted person. This morning I saw him give out everything he had in his wallet to the prisoners. Why doesn’t his voice excite him and why doesn’t he feel any excitement? Why has he still not said a single word that would touch my mind or heart?

This morning I was lost. I hardly listened to him. And yet it seemed to me that he was saying unnecessary words, and they did not touch me; they slid past like cold rain on foggy glass. But now his arrival had a calming effect on me. Of all these people, he is the only one who remained human for me, I thought. And I passionately wanted to listen to words of love and consolation.

We sat down - he on a chair, I on the bed. He said:

- My son…

And my heart opened up to meet him.

- My son, do you believe in God? - he asked.

“I believe, my father,” I answered.

– Do you believe in the Holy Apostolic Roman Catholic Church?

“I’m ready to believe,” I answered.

“You seem to doubt, my son,” he remarked.

And he spoke again. He spoke for a long time; he spoke many words; then, deciding that everything had been said, he stood up, looked at me for the first time since the beginning of his speech and asked:

– What will you answer me?

I swear, at first I listened to him eagerly, then attentively, then humbly. I got up too.

“Please leave me alone,” I said. He inquired:

- When should I come?

- I'll call you.

He left without getting angry, but only shaking his head, as if he was saying to himself:

- Wicked man!

No, although I fell very low, I did not become a wicked man, God is my witness - I believe in him. But what did this old man tell me? Nothing felt, suffered, cried, torn from the soul, nothing that would go from heart to heart, only from him to me. On the contrary, everything was somehow vague, impersonal, applicable to anyone and anything - pompous where depth was needed, vulgar where it should have been simple; in a word, a sensitive sermon or a theological elegy. And at every step there are interspersed Latin sayings from St. Augustine, from St. Gregory, from someone else. And most importantly, it seemed that he was repeating the same lesson for the twentieth time, so ingrained that its meaning had already been erased. And all this without the slightest expression in the gaze, without the slightest shade in the voice, without the slightest gesture.

And how could it be otherwise? After all, he is a prison chaplain. His duty is to console and exhort, he lives by this. Convicts and death row prisoners are included in the circle of his eloquence. He confesses and admonishes them according to their duty. He grew old, seeing people off to their deaths. It has long become a habit for him to do things that make others shudder; his hair, white as snow, no longer moves from horror, hard labor and the scaffold are ordinary things for him. You can't hit him with them. He must have kept a notebook: on one page - convicts, on the other - those sentenced to death. The day before he was informed that tomorrow at such and such an hour he needed to console someone. He asks who - a convict or someone sentenced to death? And before going, he reads the corresponding page. Thus, those who are sent to Toulon and those who are sent to execution have become something impersonal for him, and he is indifferent to them.

No, let them go at random to the first parish they come across for some young vicar or old curate and, catching him by surprise reading a book by the fireplace, tell him:

“There is a man who is about to die, and it is necessary for you, only you, to say words of consolation to him; that you be present when his hands are tied and his hair is cut off; so that you, holding the crucifix in your hands, sit with it in the cart and shield the executioner from it; so that you and he can shake along the cobblestone streets all the way to Place de Greve; so that you can go with him through the cruel, bloodthirsty crowd; so that you kiss him at the foot of the scaffold and do not leave until his head is separated from his body.

And then let him be brought to me, shocked, trembling, let him push me into his arms, at his feet; and he will cry, and we will cry together, and he will find the right words, and I will be consoled, and with his heart he will share the sorrow of my heart and accept my soul, and I will accept his God.

What is this kind-hearted old man to me? What: am I for him? A subject from the unfortunate breed, one of the many shadows that passed by him, a unit that must be added to the number of those executed.

Perhaps I am wrong to push him away; He’s not bad, I’m bad myself. What to do! I am not guilty. My breath, the breath of a suicide bomber, stains and spoils everything.

They brought me food; That's right, they decided that I was hungry. The dishes are all delicate and delicious - it seems like chicken and something else. I tried to eat, but spat out the first piece - it seemed so bitter and stinking to me!

A gentleman just came in here; he didn’t take off his hat, didn’t even look at me; Taking out a folding foot, he began to measure the walls from top to bottom, saying out loud: “This is as it should be,” or: “But here it’s not.”

I asked the gendarme who he was. It turned out that he was something of a junior architect at the prison.

He, in turn, became interested in me. After exchanging a few words with the gatekeeper who accompanied him, he fixed his gaze on me for a moment, shook his head carefreely, and again began measuring the walls and speaking out loud.

Having finished his work, he came up to me and said in a loud voice:

“You know, buddy, in six months the prison will be unrecognizable.”

His expressive gesture said: “It’s a pity you won’t use it.” A little more and he would have smiled. I was expecting him to start making fun of me, just as they would make fun of a newlywed on their wedding evening.

My gendarme, an old soldier with stripes, answered for me:

“Sir, it’s not customary to speak so loudly in a dead person’s room.”

The architect left.

I froze in place, like the stones he was measuring.

They came to relieve the kind old gendarme, but in my callous ingratitude I did not even shake his hand. His place was taken by another: a low-browed man with bulging eyes and a stupid face.

However, I didn’t pay the slightest attention to him. I sat at the table, with my back to the door, and tried to cool my forehead with my palm; My mind was clouded by the thoughts that besieged me.

But then they quietly touched me on the shoulder, and I turned around. It turned out to be a new gendarme; he and I were alone.

He addressed me with approximately the following words:

- Criminal! Are you a kind person?

“No,” I said.

Such a straightforward answer apparently embarrassed him. Nevertheless, he spoke again, less confidently:

– No one is evil on their own.

- Why doesn’t it happen? – I objected. “If you have nothing else to do with me, leave me alone.” What do you need?

- Forgive me, Mr. Criminal. Just two words. Let's say you can bring happiness to a poor person and it will amount to nothing for you, will you really refuse?

I shrugged.

-Have you come from Charenton? You have your eye on a strange source of happiness. How can I bring happiness to someone!

- Yes, yes, a criminal, and happiness and wealth. Everything can come to me through you. Listen here. I'm a poor gendarme. There is a lot of hassle, but little income; One horse is worth it, it’s my own. To make ends meet, I bet on the lottery. We need to do something. Everything would be fine, but the numbers still came out wrong. No matter how hard I try to guess the number, I end up close every time. I bet on seventy-six, but it comes out to seventy-seven. I’ve spent so much money on them, but it’s all in vain... Just be patient, I’ll finish the deal now. Here, after all, chance falls right into my hands. No offense to you, criminal, they say you will die today. And everyone knows for certain that the dead, who are sent to the next world in this manner, know in advance which number will come out in the lottery. Don’t take the trouble, come to me tomorrow evening and name the three most correct numbers, okay? It costs you nothing. And I’m not afraid of ghosts, don’t doubt that. Here's my address: Popencourt Barracks, entrance A, number twenty-six, at the end of the corridor. You recognize me by sight, right? Come today if it's more convenient for you.

I wouldn’t even answer this idiot, but an insane hope suddenly flashed in my brain. In such a hopeless situation as mine, for minutes it seems that you can grind the chains with a hair.

“Listen,” I said, deciding to play the comedy as best as possible on the threshold of death, “I really can make you richer than the king.” I will help you win millions. But on one condition...

He rolled his eyes.

- Which? Tell me which one? I am glad to serve you as you wish, Mr. Criminal.

“I promise to tell you not three numbers, but four.” But first, change clothes with me.

- If only this is the case! – he exclaimed and began to unbutton his uniform.

I got up from my chair. I watched his every move. My heart was beating desperately. I have already seen how the doors open before the gendarme uniform, how the square, and the street, and the Palace of Justice are left behind!

But then he turned around with an air of doubt.

- What do you need this for? Maybe to get out of here? It became clear to me that everything was lost. However, I made one last attempt, which was completely unnecessary and ridiculous.

“Well, yes, but your well-being is guaranteed,” I answered.

He interrupted me:

- Eh, no! Wait! What about my numbers? For them to be true, you have to be dead.

I sat down again, even more depressed by hopelessness from the momentary flash of hope.

I closed my eyes, covered them with my palms and tried to forget myself, to move into the past from the present. And so in my dreams, one after another, memories of childhood and youth arise, sweet, peaceful, cheerful, like flowering islands among the whirlpool of black, disordered thoughts swirling in my head.

I see myself as a child, a cheerful, rosy-cheeked schoolboy, playing and running with my brothers along the large green alley of the neglected garden where I spent my early years; These are former monastic properties, overlooked by the lead cap of the gloomy Val-de-Grâce cathedral.

Four years later I am there again, still a boy, but already dreamy and passionate. In the deserted garden with me is a teenage girl.

A little Spanish girl with big eyes and long braids, with cherry lips and a delicate blush on her golden-swarthy face, fourteen-year-old Andalusian Pepa.

Our mothers sent us to run, and we walk sedately around the garden. We were sent to frolic, and we are talking. We are children of the same age, but not of the same gender.

Meanwhile, just a year ago we were running and fighting with each other. I tried to take away from Pepita the best apple from the tree; I fought with her over a bird's nest. She cried, and I said: “Serves you right!” Then we both went to complain to our mothers, and they were angry out loud, but slowly became touched.

Now she is leaning on my arm, and I am both proud and embarrassed. We walk slowly, we talk in whispers. She drops her handkerchief, I pick it up. Our hands tremble as they touch. She talks about birds, about the little star that twinkles over there in the distance, about the scarlet sunset behind the tree trunks, about boarding school friends, about dresses and ribbons. We talk about the most innocent topics and both blush. The girl turned into a girl.

That evening - it was a summer evening - we walked under the chestnut trees at the very end of the garden. After a long silence, which now filled our solitary walks, she suddenly released my hand and said: “Let’s run the race!”

As I see her now: she was all in black, in mourning for her grandmother. A childish fantasy came into her head. Pepa became Pepita again and told me: let's run the race!

And she rushed forward: I saw her thin figure, like a bee’s, her slender legs flashing from under her dress, I caught up with her, she ran away; the black cape swelled from the fast running and exposed the dark young back.

I didn’t remember myself, I overtook her at the old collapsed well; by right of the winner, I grabbed her by the waist and sat her on the turf bench; she did not resist; she laughed, barely catching her breath; I couldn't help but laugh, I peered into her black eyes under the curtain of black eyelashes.

“Sit next to me,” she said. “It’s still quite light, you can read.” Do you have any book?

I had the second volume with me Travels Spallanzani. I opened it at random and moved closer to her, she leaned her shoulder against my shoulder, and we began to read together, each to himself. Each time she had to wait for me to turn the page. Her mind was faster than mine.

- Are you finished? – she asked when I was just getting started.

And our heads were touching, our hair was mixing, our breathing was getting closer, and suddenly our lips were getting closer.

- Oh, mom, mom! If only you had seen how we ran! - she said, returning. And I didn't say a word.

- Why are you silent? And you look kind of dejected,” my mother noticed.

My soul felt like I was in heaven. I will remember this evening all my life.

All life!

The clock has just struck. I don’t know how many times - I can’t hear their fight very well. There was a hum in my ears like an organ. These are my last thoughts buzzing.

In the solemn moments of a reverent pilgrimage into the past, I encounter with horror my crime; but it seems to me that I do not repent enough. Before the verdict, remorse was stronger; Since then, thoughts of death have crowded out everything else. And I would like to repent more and more.

I lost myself for a moment, going over everything that had happened in my life, and when my thoughts returned to the blow with the ax that would now end it, I shuddered, as if I knew about it for the first time. My wonderful childhood! Wonderful youth! A gold-woven carpet, the end of which is dipped in blood. Between the past and the present there was a river of blood - his blood and mine.

Whoever ever reads the story of my life, no one will believe that after so many years of immaculate happiness this terrible year could come, which began with a crime and ends with execution. It doesn't fit in with the other years. Still - vile laws and vile people - I was not a bad person!

Oh my God! To die in a few hours, knowing that on this very day a year ago I was free and innocent, taking walks and wandering under the trees through the fallen autumn leaves.

Right now, at this moment, very close to me, in the houses surrounding the Palais de Justice and the Place de Greve, and all over Paris, people come and go, talking and laughing, reading the newspaper, thinking about their affairs: shopkeepers are trading, girls are preparing ball gowns for the evening , mothers play with children!

Once, when I was a child, I went to see the big bell of the Cathedral of Our Lady.

My head was already spinning from climbing the dark spiral staircase, from walking through the fragile gallery connecting the two towers, from the spectacle of Paris below me, when I found myself in a cage of stone and logs, where hangs a large bell with a tongue weighing a thousand pounds. Trembling, I walked along the poorly fitted plank floor, looking from a distance at the famous bell, which is so famous among the children and common people; At the same time, I realized with horror that the sloping slate roofs surrounding the bell tower were at the level of my feet. Through the gaps I saw, so to speak from a bird's eye view, the square in front of the cathedral and the passers-by no bigger than ants.

And suddenly a giant bell rang, a powerful sound shook the air, the heavy tower trembled. The boardwalk shook and shook on the beams. And I almost fell backward from the sudden roar; I swayed and barely managed to keep myself from rolling down the slate roof. Out of fear, I lay down on the boards and grabbed them tightly with both hands, my tongue was taken away and my breath was taken away, and a deafening ringing was heard in my ears and before my eyes, somewhere deep, like an abyss, a square yawned, along which passers-by scurried with enviable serenity.

And now it’s like I’m back in the tower of the big bell. My head is spinning, my vision is dark, every convolution of my brain is shaking as if from the ringing of a bell; and that smooth, peaceful path of life, from which I turned and along which other people make their way, is visible somewhere in the distance, through the cracks of the abyss.

The Paris City Hall is a gloomy building with a pointed, steep roof, with an unexpectedly thin bell tower, with a huge white dial, with a number of small columns on each floor, with countless windows, with staircases worn out from footsteps, with two arches to the right and to the left; It is not for nothing that its ominous, age-worn façade, so dark that even in the sun it does not become lighter, faces the Place de Greve.

On the days of executions, all its doors are broken by gendarmes, all its windows look at the condemned man.

And in the evening, its dial, which showed the appointed hour, continues to glow on the black facade.

It struck a quarter past two.

This is what I feel now:

Severe headache, chills in the back and heat in the temples. Every time I stand up or bend over, it seems to me as if some kind of liquid is overflowing in my head and my brain is beating against the walls of my skull.

A convulsive trembling passes through the whole body, and the pen often falls out of the hands, as if from a galvanic shock.

It's as if smoke is corroding my eyes. Elbows ache.

Two more hours and three quarters and I will be healed.

They say there is nothing terrible in this, no one suffers, this is a peaceful end, and death in this way is very easy.

And what is six weeks of agony and a whole day of death agony worth? What is the languor of this irrevocable day worth, which drags on so slowly and passes so quickly? What is this ladder of torture worth, step by step leading to the scaffold?

Apparently this does not count as suffering. And it is unknown what is more painful - for the blood to leave drop by drop or for consciousness to fade away thought by thought.

And where do they get such confidence that they don’t suffer? Who told them this? Has anyone ever heard a severed head, covered in blood, look out of a basket and shout to the crowd: “This doesn’t hurt at all!”?

Which of the deceased, according to their recipe, came to express gratitude to them and say: “This invention is great, don’t look for anything better, the mechanism works properly”?

Isn't it Robespierre? Or Louis XVI?

It's OK! Half a minute, no – half a second, and it’s all over. And the one who says that, has even mentally put himself in the place of a person on whom a heavy blade falls and digs into the body, tears apart the nerves, crushes the vertebrae?.. Of course! Half a second! The pain is not felt... What a horror!

It is unclear why the thought of the king does not leave me. No matter how much I persuade myself, no matter how much I brush it off, an inner voice constantly whispers to me:

“In the same city, at the same time, not far from here, in another palace, there is a man whose doors are also guarded by sentries, a man like you, who has no equal in the eyes of the people with the difference that he is the first and you are the last from people. Every minute of his life is full of triumph, grandeur, rapture and delight. He is surrounded by love, honor, and reverence. In a conversation with him, the loudest voices become quiet and the proudest heads bow. His gaze is caressed by gold and satin. At this hour, he is probably conferring with the ministers, and everyone agrees with his opinion, or he is thinking about tomorrow’s hunt, about today’s ball, without doubting that the celebration will take place on time, and entrusting others with the care of his amusements. But he is the same person, flesh and blood, like you! “And for the damned scaffold to collapse this very minute, for everything to be returned to you - life, freedom, fortune, family - it’s enough for him to write four letters of his name under a piece of paper with this pen, it’s enough even for his carriage to meet your cart.” . And he is kind and, perhaps, would be glad to do everything, but none of this will happen!

Well! Let us gather all our courage in the face of death and look it straight in the eyes. Let him answer us what she is and what she wants from us, let us consider this cruel thought from all sides, try to decipher the riddle and look into the grave in advance. When my eyes close, I see, it seems to me, a bright radiance, abysses of light in which my spirit will forever soar. The sky, it seems to me, will light up on its own, and the stars will be dark spots on it, not golden sparkles on black velvet, as in the eyes of the living, but black dots on golden brocade.

Or, for me, the damned one, a deep, terrible abyss will open up, shrouded in darkness on all sides, and I will forever fall into it and see ghosts moving in the darkness.

Or maybe, after this happens, I will wake up on a flat damp surface and crawl in the dark, spinning like a rolled head spins. I feel like the strong wind will push me and push me into other rolling heads. In some places I will come across swamps and streams filled with an unknown lukewarm liquid, as black as everything around. When, during the rotation, my eyes turn upward, they see a gloomy sky, all in heavy, low-hanging clouds, and further, in the depths, huge clouds of smoke, blacker than the darkness itself. They will also see red dots flickering in the darkness, which will turn into fiery birds up close. And it will last forever. It is also possible that on memorable dates the Grevian dead gather on dark winter nights in the square that rightfully belongs to them. I too will join the crowd of these pale bloody shadows. It's a moonless night, everyone speaks in a whisper. And before us again is the dilapidated façade of the town hall, its peeling roof and the dial, which was unforgiving to all of us. A hellish guillotine has been erected in the square, where the devil must execute the executioner. This will happen at four o'clock in the morning, and now we will crowd around.

Let's assume that this is true. But if the dead return, in what form do they return? What do they retain from their truncated, mutilated body? What do they prefer? Does the head or torso become a ghost?

What does death do to our soul? What nature does it endow with? What does it take from her or give to her? Where does it go? Does it at least occasionally return her bodily eyes to look at the ground and cry?

Oh, find, find me a priest who knows this! I need a priest, I need to venerate the crucifix!

Lord, the same one again!

I told him I wanted to sleep and threw myself on the bed.

Because of the strong rush of blood to my head, I actually fell asleep. The last time I slept was like this and not any other kind of sleep.

And I dreamed that it was night. It’s like I’m sitting in my office with two or three friends, I don’t remember who.

The wife went to bed and put the child to bed with her.

My friends and I are talking in whispers about something terrible.

Suddenly I hear a noise somewhere, in the neighboring rooms. Weak, incomprehensible, indefinite noise.

Friends heard him too. We listen; it seems that someone is carefully opening the lock and slowly sawing through the bolt.

There is something creepy about this - we are cold with fear. It could only be that thieves got into my place at such a late hour. We decide to go have a look. I get up and take the candle. Friends follow me.

We walk through the bedroom. The wife and child are sleeping.

We're in the living room. Not a soul. The portraits hang motionless in gilded frames on red wallpaper. It seemed to me that the door from the living room to the dining room was ajar.

We enter the dining room; Let's examine it. I'm going first. The door to the stairs is locked, and so are the windows. Approaching the stove, I noticed that the linen closet was open and that its open door obscured the corner of the room.

This puzzled me. We thought that someone was hiding behind the door.

I pulled the door with my hand; she didn't give in. I was surprised and pulled harder; the door slammed shut, and we saw a hunched old woman standing motionless, with her hands down, her eyes closed, as if glued to the corner. There was something inexpressibly terrible about it; even now, just remembering it, my hair stands on end.

I asked the old woman:

- What are you doing here? She didn't answer. I asked:

- Who you are?

She didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes.

Friends decided:

“She is probably an accomplice of those who came here with bad intentions; the rest, hearing our steps, ran away, but she didn’t have time and hid in the corner.

I again began to interrogate her - she did not answer, did not move, did not look.

One of us pushed her and she fell.

She collapsed like a piece of wood, like a lifeless object.

We tried to move it with our feet, then two of us lifted it up and put it against the wall again. She showed no signs of life. They shouted right into her ear. She remained mute, as if she had heard nothing. We were already beginning to lose patience, and anger was mixed with horror. Someone advised me:

- Bring a candle under her nose. I brought the lit wick to her face. She half-opened one eye, dull, scary, sightless. I took the candle away and said:

- Yeah! Finally! Will you answer now, old witch? Who are you?

The eye closed as if by itself.

- Well, this is impudence! – my friends shouted in unison. - Come on, give me another candle! Make her answer!

I again brought the candle to the old woman's face.

And so she slowly opened both eyes, looked at us all in turn, then, suddenly bending down, blew out the candle, breathing an icy breath on it. At that same second, three sharp teeth in the darkness pierced my hand.

I woke up shaking all over, drenched in cold sweat.

The good priest sat at the foot of my bed and said prayers.

- How long have I been asleep? – I asked.

“You slept for an hour, my son,” he replied. - They brought your daughter to you. She is waiting in the next room. I didn't allow you to wake up.

- My daughter is here! - I cried. - Bring her to me.

She is so fresh, pink, she has huge eyes, she is a beauty!

They put her on a dress that suits her very well.

I grabbed her, picked her up, sat her on my lap, and kissed her head.

Why is she without her mother? - Mom is sick, grandmother is also sick. That's what I thought.

She looked at me in surprise and resignedly endured caresses, hugs, kisses, only from time to time she glanced with concern at her nanny, who was crying in the corner.

Finally I found the strength to speak.

- Marie! My little Marie! – I whispered and pressed her tightly to my chest, from which sobs burst. She screamed weakly.

“It hurts, don’t do this, uncle,” she said pitifully.

Uncle! Poor baby, she hasn't seen me for almost a year. She forgot my face, the intonation of my voice; And how can you recognize me, overgrown with a beard, pale, in such clothes? That means she doesn't remember me anymore! But it’s only in her memory that I would like to live! So I'm no longer a father! I am no longer destined to hear this word in children's language, so tender that it cannot pass into the language of adults - the word “dad”!

Just one more time, just one time, to hear him from these lips - that’s all I ask for in the forty years of life that are being taken away from me!

- Well, look, Marie, don’t you remember me? – I asked, connecting both of her little hands in my hands.

She looked up at me with her beautiful black eyes and said:

– I don’t remember at all!

“Take a better look,” I insisted. - Don’t you know who I am?

– I know, you are someone else’s uncle.

How terrible it is when the only creature in the world whom you love selflessly, you love with all the power of your love, looks at you, talks to you, answers you and does not recognize you! You crave consolation only from him, and the only thing hidden from him is that you need consolation, because you must die!

– Do you have a dad, Marie? – I asked.

“Yes,” answered the girl.

- Where is he?

Her big eyes looked at me in surprise.

- Don’t you know? He died.

She screamed again - I almost dropped her.

- Died! – I repeated. - And do you know. Marie, what do you mean, dead?

I kissed her forehead.

– Tell me how you pray. Marie.

- You can't, uncle. They don't pray during the day. Come to us this evening, then I will say a prayer to you. It was beyond my strength. I interrupted her:

- Marie, I am your dad.

- Well! – she drawled. I insisted:

- Do you want me to be your dad? The girl turned away.

- No, my dad was more handsome. I showered her with kisses and watered her with tears. She tried to free herself and screamed:

-Your beard is prickly!

I sat her down on my knees again and, without taking my eyes off her, began to ask:

“I can,” she answered. – Mom teaches me to read letters.

“Well, read it,” I suggested, pointing to the paper that she was crumpling in her little hands.

She shook her pretty head.

- Try. Read it.

She unfolded the paper and began, moving her finger, to sort through the warehouses:

– P, R, I, at; G, O, go; V, O, R, thief - sentence...

I snatched the piece of paper from her. She read my death sentence. The nanny bought it for a copper. It cost me more.

Words cannot express what I felt. My sudden movement frightened Marie; she almost burst into tears and suddenly demanded:

– Don’t touch the paper, do you hear! This is my toy.

I handed the girl over to the nanny.

- Take her away.

And he himself, devastated, full of gloomy despair, fell back onto his chair. Let them come quickly; I don’t value anything anymore; the last thread connecting me to life is broken. I'm ready for what they're going to do to me.

The priest is a kind man, and so is the gendarme. I think they shed a tear when I ordered my child to be taken away.

It's finished. Now I need to gather all my spiritual strength and force myself to calmly think about the executioner, about the cart, about the gendarmes, about the onlookers on the bridge, about the onlookers on the embankment, about the onlookers at the windows and about what was erected in my honor on the ominous Place de Greve, which can be paved with heads that have rolled down on it.

It seems I still have an hour to get my head around these thoughts.

All these crowds will laugh, clap their hands, rejoice. And among so many people, free and unknown to the jailers, running with delight to watch the execution, among this sea of ​​heads that will flood the square, not one head is destined sooner or later to follow mine into the bloody basket. Not one of those who came for me will come here for himself.

For these people marked by fate, there is a fatal point on Grevskaya Square, a center of attraction, a trap. They circle around until they hit it.

My little Marie! She returns to her fun. From the window of the cab she looks at the crowd and no longer thinks at all about someone else’s uncle.

Maybe I will have time to write a few pages for her so that she can read them in due time and in fifteen years she will mourn what she did not cry over today.

Yes, she must learn my story from me, she must know why the name that I bequeath to her is stained with blood.

My history

Publisher's Note. So far we have not been able to find the relevant pages. Apparently, as can be concluded from the subsequent ones, the condemned man did not have time to write them. This thought came to him too late.

From a room in the town hall

From the town hall!.. So, I'm here. The terrible path has been passed. The square is down there, and the hateful crowd under the window is screaming and waiting for me and laughing.

No matter how hard I tried to be persistent and invulnerable, my strength failed me. When I saw over the heads, between the two lamps of the embankment, these raised red hands with black triangles at the end, my strength changed. I asked to be given the opportunity to make a final statement. I was taken here and sent for one of the crown prosecutors. I am waiting for him; after all, it’s a gain of time.

That's how it was.

Three o'clock struck and they came to tell me it was time. I trembled as if I had been thinking about something else for the last six hours, six weeks, six months. This struck me as something unexpected. They forced me to walk along their corridors, down their stairs. They pushed me through one, then a second door on the lower floor into a gloomy, vaulted, cramped room, into which the light of a rainy, foggy day barely penetrated. A chair was placed in the middle. I was told to sit down; I sat down.

There were some people standing near the door and at the walls, besides the priest and the gendarmes, and there were also three men in the room.

The first, red-cheeked, fat, taller and older than the others, was dressed in a frock coat and a sagging cocked hat. It was he.

It was the executioner, the servant of the guillotine, and the other two were his servants.

I had barely sat down when those two crept up behind me like cats; I suddenly felt the cold steel in my hair and heard the clanging of scissors.

My hair, cut haphazardly, fell in strands onto my shoulders, and the man in the cocked hat carefully brushed it away with his hand.

A dull rumble was heard outside, as if coming in waves. I thought it was a river; but from the bursts of laughter I realized that it was a crowd.

The young man at the window, who was marking something with a pencil in a notebook, asked one of the jailers what the name of what was happening was called.

- Toilet, condemned. - answered the jailer.

I realized that tomorrow it would be described in the newspapers.

Suddenly one of the henchmen pulled off my jacket, and the other took my lowered hands, pulled them behind my back, I felt a rope wrap around my wrists. Meanwhile, the second one was taking off my tie. The cambric shirt, the only shred that remained of who I used to be, confused him for a moment; then he began to cut off her collar.

From this terrible precaution, from the touch of cold steel on my neck, my elbows twitched and a muffled scream escaped me. The executioner's hand trembled.

- Sorry, sir! - he said. - Did I offend you?

Executioners are courteous people.

And the crowd outside roared louder.

A fat man with a pimply face invited me to smell a handkerchief soaked in vinegar.

“Thank you, I feel good,” I answered, trying to speak in a firm voice.

Then one of the assistants bent down and put a loop of thin twine around my legs, tightening it just enough so that I could take small steps. He connected the end of this rope to the one with which his hands were tied. Then the fat man threw a jacket over my shoulders and tied the sleeves at my chin.

Everything that needed to be done has been done so far.

Then a priest approached me with a crucifix.

“Come on, my son,” he said.

The executioner's assistants grabbed me under the arms. I got up and went. My legs were like cotton wool and gave way, as if each had two knees.

At that moment the outer door swung open. A furious roar, cold air and daylight rushed towards me. From under the dark vault, through the net of rain, I immediately saw everything: a thousand-headed screaming crowd crowding the large staircase of the Palace of Justice; to the right, at the level with the entrance, a row of mounted gendarmes - a low door allowed me to see only the horse's legs and chests; opposite is a platoon of soldiers in battle formation; to the left is the back wall of the cart with a steep ladder attached to it. A terrible picture, and the prison door was a worthy frame for it.

I was afraid of this moment and saved all my strength for it. I walked three steps and appeared on the threshold.

- Here he is! Here! It turns out! Finally! - the crowd screamed.

And those who were closer clapped their hands. With all the love for the king, he would not have been greeted so enthusiastically.

The cart was a very ordinary one, drawn by a stunted nag, and the driver wore a blue apron with red streaks, the kind worn by gardeners in the vicinity of Bicêtre.

The fat man in the cocked hat was the first to get up.

- Hello, Mr. Sanson! - shouted the children, perched on the bars. One of his henchmen followed him.

- Hello, Tuesday! – the kids shouted again.

They both sat down on the front bench.

It was my turn. I ascended with a rather firm step.

- Well done! – noticed a woman standing near the gendarmes.

This cruel praise gave me strength. The priest sat down next to me. I was seated on the back bench, with my back to the horse. Such thoughtfulness made me shudder.

Here too they try to flaunt their love for humanity. I wanted to see what was going on around me. The gendarmes are ahead, the gendarmes are behind, and then crowds, crowds and crowds; there are only heads in the square.

A picket of mounted gendarmerie was waiting for me at the fence of the Palace of Justice. The officer commanded. The cart set off along with the convoy, the howl of the mob seemed to be pushing it.

We left the gate. At that moment, when the cart turned towards the Changers Bridge, the square erupted in shouts from the pavement to the rooftops, and the embankments and bridges responded so that it seemed that the earth was about to shake.

At this turn the mounted picket joined the convoy.

- Hats off! Hats off! - thousands of voices shouted. Just like for a king.

Here I laughed bitterly and said to the priest:

- From them - the hats, from me - the head.

The cart moved at a walk.

The Embankment of Flowers was fragrant - today was market day. The saleswomen abandoned their bouquets for me.

Opposite, a little further away from the square tower that forms the corner of the Palace of Justice, there are taverns; their upper rooms were filled with the lucky ones who had received such good places. There were especially many women. It's a good day for the innkeepers today.

People paid for tables, for chairs, for boards, for carts. Everything around was bursting with spectators. The merchants of human blood shouted at the top of their lungs:

- Whose place?

Anger against this crowd took possession of me. I wanted to shout:

– Who should I give up mine to?

And the cart kept moving. Behind us the crowd was dissipating, and I watched with bleary eyes as it gathered again on the further stages of my journey.

When entering the Change Bridge, I accidentally looked to the right and on the opposite bank I noticed a black tower above the houses, which stood alone, bristling with sculptural decorations, and at the top of it I could see two stone monsters in profile. I don’t know why I asked the priest what kind of tower it was.

“St. James-at-the-Slaughterhouse,” the executioner answered instead.

I cannot understand how, despite the fog and frequent muddy rain, which covered the air like a network of cobwebs, I saw everything that was happening around me in the smallest detail. And every detail was painful in its own way. There are experiences for which there are not enough words.

Near the middle of the Change Bridge, so crowded with crowds that despite its width we could barely plod along, I was seized by uncontrollable horror. I was afraid that I would faint - the last glimpse of vanity! And I tried to forget myself, not to look at anything, not to listen to anything except the words of the priest, which barely reached me through the noise and shouting.

I reached for the crucifix and kissed it.

- Lord, have mercy on me! – I whispered, trying to go deeper into prayer.

But every push of the cart shook me on the hard seat. Then suddenly I felt a piercing cold, my clothes were soaked through, and the rain poured down on my shaved head.

“Are you shivering from the cold, my son?” - asked the priest.

“Yes,” I answered.

Alas! It wasn't just the cold that made me tremble. When we turned off the bridge, some women pitied my youth.

We drove out to the fatal embankment. I hardly saw or heard anything anymore. Continuous screams, countless heads in the windows, in the doors, on the thresholds of shops, on lampposts, the cruel curiosity of onlookers; a crowd in which everyone knows me, but I don’t know anyone; human faces below me and around me. I was drunk, like crazy, I was frozen as if in a tetanus. An unbearable burden - so many stubborn, unrelenting glances.

I shook on the bench, not noticing either the priest or the crucifix.

In the noise surrounding me, I no longer distinguished exclamations of pity from exclamations of gloating, laughter from sighs, words from din; everything merged into a general hum, which made my head buzz like a brass instrument.

I unconsciously scanned the signs on the benches.

Once a strange curiosity prompted me to turn around and look at what I was approaching. This was the last daring of reason. But my body did not obey, my neck seemed to be ossified, as if it had died beforehand.

I only managed to see from the side, on the left on the other bank, one of the towers of the Cathedral of Our Lady, the one with the flag on it - the second one is hidden behind it. There were a lot of people there - you can probably see everything from there.

And the cart kept moving and moving, shops floated past, signs, written, drawn, gilded, replaced one another, the mob grinned and trampled in the mud, and I obeyed everything, like sleeping people - the will of a dream.

Suddenly the row of shops along which I had been glancing ended at the corner of some square; the roar of the crowd became even louder, more shrill, more enthusiastic; the cart suddenly stopped, and I almost fell face down to the bottom. The priest held me back.

- Take heart! - he whispered.

A ladder was placed against the back wall of the cart; the priest helped me, I went down, took a step, turned to take the second, and could not. Between two embankment lamps I saw a terrible thing.

No, it was not a dream!

I staggered as if I had already been hit.

“I need to make a final statement,” I cried out in a weak voice.

They brought me here.

I asked to be allowed to write my last will. My hands were untied, but the rope was there; ready, like everything else down there.

Some official, either a judge or a bailiff, just came to see me. I asked him for mercy, folding my hands as if in prayer and crawling on my knees in front of him. And he noted with a sarcastic grin that it was not worth calling him for this.

- Achieve, obtain pardon! - I repeated. “Or, for Christ’s sake, wait at least five minutes!”

Who knows? Pardon may yet come! It's too scary to die like that at my age! It happened more than once that pardon came at the last minute. And who should be pardoned, sir, if not me?

Merciless executioner! He approached the judge and said that the execution had to take place at a certain hour and that hour was approaching, that he was responsible for everything, and in addition it was raining and the mechanism might rust.

“For Christ’s sake, wait another minute until the pardon comes, otherwise I won’t give in, I’ll bite!”

The judge and executioner came out. I am alone - alone with two gendarmes.

O this vile mob! She howls like a hyena. What if I slip away from her? What if I will be saved? Pardoned?.. They can’t help but pardon me!

Damned! I hear their footsteps on the stairs...

Four o'clock.

Victor Hugo

This "diary" was originally published anonymously and was a phenomenal success. Hugo does not say what the guilt of this condemned man is, he is simply perplexed: is there a crime commensurate with the torment that the condemned experience while awaiting the execution of the sentence? Where does one person have the right to take the life of another?

The story comes with a preface from the publisher (that is, the author), where Hugo states that his role is “the role of intercessor for all possible defendants, guilty or innocent, before all courts and tribunals, before all juries, before all arbiters of justice.”

Written in the century before last, the story is striking in its relevance today.

Victor Hugo

The last day of a person sentenced to death

The first edition of this work, published without the name of the author, was preceded only by the following lines:

“There are only two possibilities to interpret the appearance of this book: either there really was a stack of yellowed sheets of paper of various sizes on which the last thoughts of the unfortunate sufferer were written; or there was such a person, a dreamer, studying life in the interests of art, a philosopher, a poet, in a word, a person who was carried away by this thought, or, rather, this thought, once it came into his head, captivated him so much that he could get rid of it , only by presenting it in a book.

Let the reader choose which of the two explanations he prefers.”

As is clear from these lines, at the time the book was published, the author did not consider it necessary to fully express his thoughts. He preferred to wait to be understood and find out whether she would be understood. She was understood. And now the author considers it timely to reveal the political and social idea that he wanted to bring to the consciousness of society in an accessible and innocent form of a literary work. So, he declares, or rather openly admits, that the _Last_day_of_the_sentenced_to_death_ is a direct or indirect, call it what you will, petition for the abolition of the death penalty. His goal - and he would like posterity, if only it stops its attention to such a small thing, to perceive this work - its goal is not the defense of any one specific criminal, which is not so difficult to accomplish from case to case; no, this is a general petition for all those convicted, present and future, for all times; this is a fundamental question of human law, raised and defended loudly before society, as before the highest court of cassation; this is a formidable barrier, _abhorrescere_a_sanguine_, erected forever before all legal processes; this is a terrible, fatal problem that is hidden in the depths of every death sentence, under a triple layer of crackling, bloodthirsty eloquence of the royal minions; this, I repeat, is a problem of life and death, open, naked, cleared of the tinsel of sonorous prosecutorial phrases, brought into the bright light, placed where it should be considered, in its truly terrible environment - not in the courtroom, but on the scaffold, not in the judge, and the executioner.

So, he declares and repeats that his role is that of an intercessor for all possible defendants, guilty or innocent, before all courts and tribunals, before all juries, before all arbiters of justice. This book is addressed to everyone who judges. And in order for the petition to correspond in scale to the problem itself, the author wrote _The Last_day_of_a_Sentenced_to_Death_ so that there was nothing accidental, particular, exceptional, relative, changeable, episodic, anecdotal in it, no facts, proper names, he limited himself (if you can call it restriction) protection of the first available death sentence, executed on the first available day, for the first available crime. And he is happy if, with just the weapon of his word, he managed to penetrate the heart of a judicial official, protected by triple armor, and this heart began to bleed. Happy if he made those who consider themselves just merciful. Happy if he had the luck to dig up a person under the shell of a judge!

Three years ago, when this book was published, some people found it necessary to dispute the authorship of the main idea. Some referred to some kind of English, others to American work. It’s a strange fantasy to look for primary sources in God knows where and prove that the stream flowing along your street is fed by the waters of the Nile. Alas! Neither English, nor American, nor Chinese works have anything to do with it. The author did not get the main idea of ​​_Sentenced_to_death_ from books, it is not his custom to go so far for thoughts, he took it where all of you could take it, where it suggested itself, perhaps, from you (for who did not mentally compose or think through _The last_day_of_the_sentenced_?) - simply on Grevskaya Square. Walking one day through the fatal square, he picked up this thought in a pool of blood, under the bloody stumps from the guillotine.

And from then on, every time, after the ominous Thursday, the death sentence was publicly announced in the Court of Cassation in Paris, every time the author heard the hoarse cries of heralds under his windows, gathering spectators to the Place de Grève, the painful thought returned to him, captured him. completely, reminded him of the gendarmes, of the executioners, of the mob, hour after hour she depicted for him the dying throes of a sufferer - now they are confessing him, now they are cutting his hair, tying his hands - she encouraged the modest poet to express all this to a society that calmly goes about its business while such a monstrous crime is happening; hurried, pushed him, did not give him rest; if he composed poems, the same thought expelled them from consciousness and killed them in the bud, interfered with all his activities, invaded everywhere, pursued, besieged him, held him captive. It was torture, real torture, it began at dawn and lasted, like the torment of the unfortunate martyr, up to four hours. And only when the funeral chime of the clock announced that the sufferer was _ponens_caput_expiravit_, the author could take a breath and turn his thoughts to something else. And finally, somehow, it seems the day after Ulbach’s execution, he sat down to write a real book. After that, it was as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. When one of these public crimes, called execution of a judicial sentence, is now committed, his conscience tells him that he is no longer an accomplice; on his brow he no longer feels that drop of blood from the Place de Greve, which falls on the heads of everyone united by this social system.

However, this is not enough. It is good to wash your hands, but it is more important to ensure that no human blood is spilled.

And in fact, is there a better, higher, more worthy goal than this - to achieve the abolition of the death penalty? Therefore, the author wholeheartedly joins the aspirations and efforts of noble people of all nations, who for many years have been making every effort to topple the gallows - the only foundations that have not been overthrown even by revolutions. And he is happy that, in his weakness, he can still drive the ax deeper into the cut that Beccaria made seventy years ago in the old gallows that has towered over the Christian world for so many centuries.

We just said that the scaffold is the only structure that revolutions do not destroy. Indeed, revolutions rarely succeed in not shedding human blood; their purpose is to cleanse society, to cut off its branches and tops, and it is difficult for them to do without such a cleaning tool as the death penalty.

However, in our opinion, of all the revolutions, the most worthy and capable of abolishing the death penalty was the July Revolution. It would seem that it is most likely appropriate for this most humane of the popular movements of our time to abolish the barbaric punitive system of Louis XI, Richelieu and Robespierre and put the inviolability of human life at the head of the laws. 1830 had the right to break the guillotine knife of 1793.

There was a moment when we hoped so. In August 1830, magnanimous, beneficent trends were felt in the air, society was imbued with the spirit of enlightenment and humanity, hearts were opening towards a bright future, and it seemed to us that the death penalty would certainly be abolished, immediately, by silent, unanimous agreement, as a relic of everything bad things that prevented us from living. The people made funny fires out of scraps of the old regime. This flap was bloody. We decided that he ended up in the same pile with the others and was also burned. For several weeks we confidently hoped that in the future both life and liberty would become inviolable.

And in fact, not more than two months later an attempt was made to translate into reality the wonderful utopia of Caesar Bonesan and put it into legal form. Unfortunately, the attempt was clumsy, inept, perhaps insincere, and did not serve the general interest.

Everyone remembers how in October 1830 the chamber, which a few days earlier had rejected the proposal to bury Napoleon’s ashes under the Column, began to scream and moan in unison. The question of the death penalty was brought up for discussion - below we will explain in what connection; and then suddenly, as if by magic, the hearts of the legislators were filled with mercy. Everyone vying with each other took the floor, shouted, raised their hands to the sky. The death penalty! God, what a horror! Some prosecutor general, gray in a red judicial robe, who had spent his entire life eating bread dipped in the blood of the victims of his indictments, would suddenly put on a pitiful face and swear by all the saints that he was an ardent opponent of the guillotine. For two days the podium was besieged by tearful talkers. It was continuous lamentations, unctuous sighs, mournful psalms, and _Super_flumina_Babylonis_, and _Stabat_Mater_dolorosa_, a whole symphony in a minor key with a choir, performed by an orchestra of speakers who decorate the front benches of the House and spread like nightingales on the days of important meetings. Some were loud, some were fistulous. Nothing was forgotten. It couldn't have been more melodramatic and sensitive. The evening session was especially sweet and heart-wrenching, exactly like the fifth act from Lachausse's play. The simple-minded public did not understand anything and was only moved to tears.

What were we talking about? About the abolition of the death penalty?

Yes and no.

That's how it was.

Four society men, quite correct and well-bred, the kind of people you meet in drawing rooms and exchange a few polite words, so four such people made a daring attempt in the highest political spheres, which according to Bacon qualifies as a “crime”, and according to Machiavelli as “ company". One way or another, the law, equally inexorable for everyone, punishes this with death. And so the four unfortunates found themselves prisoners of the law, imprisoned under the magnificent arches of the Vincennes Castle, protected by three hundred three-color cockades. How can we be here? How to find a way out? You understand, you can’t send four people like you and me, four people from society, to the Place de Greve, in a cart, humiliatingly tied with a rough rope, back to back with that servant of the law, whom it’s shameful to even name. If only there were a mahogany guillotine!

It's nothing you can do! We will have to abolish the death penalty! And the chamber begins to act.

Remember, gentlemen, that just yesterday you considered the abolition of the death penalty to be utopian and theoretical nonsense, an insane fantasy. Remember that more than once an attempt has been made to draw your attention to the shameful cart, to the thick ropes and to the vile bright red car. It’s strange that all these disgusting attributes only now caught your eye.

Eh! What is there to dig into! It is not for your sake, people, that we are abolishing the death penalty, but for the sake of ourselves, the deputies, - after all, each of us can become a minister! We don't want Guillotin's machine to encroach on the upper classes. We prefer to break it. All the better if it benefits others, but we were only thinking about ourselves. Ukalegon's palace is on fire. We need to put out the fire. The executioner must be immediately abolished and the criminal code cleaned up.

This is how the admixture of personal considerations distorts and mars the best public undertakings. This is a black vein in white marble; it stretches everywhere and is found under the incisor every moment. As a result, the statue must be made again.

It is unnecessary to state here that we are not among those who demanded the execution of the four ministers. After the unfortunates were arrested, indignant indignation at their criminal attempt was replaced in us, like everyone else, by deep pity. We remembered what prejudices were instilled in some of them by their upbringing, how poorly developed the mind of their leader, a stupid, incorrigible fanatic who survived the conspiracies of 1804, turned gray prematurely in the darkness and dampness of state dungeons; we remembered what obligations the position they occupied inevitably imposed on everyone, how difficult, even impossible, it was to stay on the steep slope along which the monarchy, through its own efforts, was rapidly sliding since August 8, 1829, what influence the personality of the king had - this circumstance we have until then they didn’t take it into account enough - and most importantly, they remembered with what dignity one of the conspirators behaved, covering with him, like a purple robe, the general misfortune. We are among those who sincerely wished for their survival and were ready to make every effort to achieve this. If the incredible had happened and a scaffold had been erected for them on the Place de Greve, we have no doubt - and if this is a delusion, then we want to preserve it - we have no doubt that a rebellion would have occurred, and the scaffold would have been overthrown, and the author of these lines would take part in this righteous rebellion. For it must also be said that the scaffold erected during socio-political crises is the most disgusting, the most harmful, the most destructive of all scaffolds, and it must be abolished at all costs.

THE LAST DAY OF THE CONTRACTED TO DEATH.

(DERNIER JOUR D "UN CONDAMNÉ).
(1829.)

VICTOR HUGO.

Bicetre.

Sentenced to death! At midnight I was taken out of the courtroom, and the hearing was still going on. They brought me to the straw of the casemate, I immediately fell into a deep sleep, and with it into self-forgetfulness. This was my first sleep after a long period of sleeplessness. I to the jailer. He was silent for a minute, as if pondering whether he should answer me; then he grumbled through his teeth: “maybe!” the clanking of weapons; the benches moved, the doors at the fences creaked, and while I walked along the long hall between two walls of people, held back by rows of soldiers, it seemed to me that I was the center on which the invisible threads of the views of all those present were connected. sun, I couldn’t think about anything other than freedom, my heart was enlightened with hope, and I waited for the verdict as liberation from life. I walked as if drunk or stupefied. A terrible revolution took place in me. Before the verdict was pronounced, I was still breathing, moving, living among other people; Now, between me and the light, some kind of barrier has arisen. Everything appeared to me in a different form. The high windows, the clear sun, the clear sky, the lovely flower, everything faded, turned pale, and took on the color of a shroud. These people, women, children, crowding along my path seemed like ghosts to me. At that moment I noticed; that I have no shackles; I don’t remember where and when they were taken off me. Then there was deep silence. I reached my place. At that moment, when the vague murmur in the crowd died down, my thoughts came into order. Instantly I understood what I had only guessed about until now; I realized that the fatal moment had arrived, and that I was brought here to hear the verdict. How has my situation changed? From the moment when my sentence was pronounced, how many people died who were going to live for a very long time. How many people, young, healthy, free, who were going to watch my execution - did I survive at that time... How many more will I survive!.. What should I regret in my life? What am I parting with, what was waiting for me? The darkness and stale bread of the cell, the thin soup from the same cauldron with the convicts, the rude treatment - unbearable to me, as a well-mannered person; jailers and bailiffs; constant trembling at the memory of what I have done, what they are doing to me... These are the blessings that the executioner will take away from me... And yet it is terrible! a bag made of rough canvas, which made it impossible for me to move my arms; they were responsible for my life. Six or seven weeks could pass before the verdict was confirmed, and I had to be kept healthy and unharmed for the Place de Greve. In the first days they treated me with meekness, which was intolerable to me. The caresses of the jailer smell like the scaffold. Fortunately, after a few days, the habit took over; they began to treat me with the same bestial rudeness as they treated the prisoners; This extraordinary politeness, which constantly reminded me of the executioner, disappeared. But there was another improvement in my life. Thanks to my youth, humility, and the intercession of the prison pastor, I was allowed to walk around the yard once a week with other prisoners and took off my taming shirt. After some hesitation, they gave me ink, paper, pens and a night light. Every Sunday, after mass, during rest hours, they let me out into the yard. Here I spoke with the prisoners; It’s impossible without this. She told me about her tricks, and it was scary to listen to them; but I knew that they were bragging. They taught me their dialect and thieves' technical terms. This is a special language with an admixture of ordinary language, or, rather, an outgrowth of wild meat, verdant in the native language. Some expressions amaze with their energy and picturesqueness: he has tar on his hands(he killed) marry a widow(to be hanged), as if the noose were the widow of all hanged men. The thief's head is called in two ways: sorbon if she thinks, reasons and incites others to commit a crime, and crazy- if the executioner chops it down. Other expressions are somehow vaudeville-playful: first cashmere(rag picker's basket), liar(language), and, in addition, every minute, strange, mysterious indecent words, borrowed from unknown sources: godfather(executioner), cone(the square where executions take place). Exactly the names of some toads or spiders. When you hear conversations in this language, you feel as if dust is flying into your eyes from the dirty rags that are being shaken out in front of you. At least these people feel sorry for me; They are the only ones who regret it. The watchmen, the housekeepers, the doorkeepers - I'm not angry with them - talk and laugh among themselves, and talk about me in front of me as if I were a thing. I will be deprived of the opportunity to continue - this story is unfinished, but as complete as possible - the story of my torment, will it not serve as a great and deep lesson? I wrote a will. And I said to myself: “If I have the means to write, why should I write to me?” But what will I write? I sit within four walls, deprived of freedom of movement, without a horizon to look at, looking only at the wall of the corridor through the lattice door, alone with the thought of crime and punishment, murder and death! What can I say if I have nothing else to do in this world? Will I find in my faded, empty brain anything worth writing about? Why not? If everything around me is colorless and monotonous, but inside me a storm, a struggle, is boiling, a whole tragedy is playing out! This constant thought that torments me, won’t it become even more terrible with every hour, with every minute, as the fateful date approaches? Undoubtedly, this is a rich topic for writing, and no matter how short my life may be, there is still enough torment in it to describe them with a pen and exhaust the entire inkwell. In my torments, the only way to alleviate them is precisely to observe them, to describe them. as they call it, hung with rags of cobwebs. And there are no windows; not even an outlet; the door is tightly bound with iron. Guilty. At the top of the door, in the middle, there is a hole of nine square inches, covered with cross-shaped iron bars. At night, the jailer locks this opening. Behind the doors is a rather long corridor, illuminated and ventilated by narrow vents punched at the top of the wall, and divided into sections; in each of them there is a door bound with iron; these doors lead to dungeons similar to mine. Here, by order of the prison warden, prisoners are sent to punish guilty prisoners. The first three kennels are designated for housing those sentenced to death, which is why they are closer to the jailer’s room, and it is more convenient for him to supervise them. These casemates are the only remains of the ancient castle of Bicetre, built in the fifteenth century by Cardinal Winchester, the one who condemned Joan of Arc to the stake. So they said to visitors, 1824. Again flaming hearts, with a signature too strange for prison: I love and adore Mathieu Danvin. Zhan. On the opposite wall there is only one name: Papawuan. The capital P is decorated with arabesques and carefully outlined. Then - a verse of an indecent song. Phrygian cap, deeply carved on stone, with the inscription: , Bori.--Republic. This is the work of one of the four Larochelle non-commissioned officers. Poor young man! For the thought - you paid with your head; for a dream - a terrible reality called the guillotine? And I I re-read these names, and they awakened dark memories in me. Before that, he cut his own brother into pieces, and at night, walking around Paris, he threw the scale into the fountain, and the body into the drain. Poulain - killed his wife; Jacques Martin shot his father with a pistol at the moment when the old man opened the window. Castaigne, a doctor, poisoned his friend, and using him for this artificial disease, continued to give poison instead of medicine; and with them Papavuan, a mad madman who killed children with knife blows to the head. All of Bicêtre laughed, sang, ran, and danced. However, the guards (in the crowd of which, judging by their neat clothes and the expression of horror on their faces, there were also townspeople who had come here for the sake of curiosity) - the guards set to work. One of them climbed onto the cart and began throwing chains, collars and canvas trousers from it to his comrades. Then they hurried: some in the corner of the yard stretched long chains, called in their language Having shed blood, I, a murderer, still dare to complain! Enough! I go no further in my search. In the corner I noticed a terrible drawing drawn in chalk, the outline of a scaffold that might now be being built for me... I almost dropped the night light from my hands. I quickly sat down on the straw, placing my head on my knees. Then, when my childish horror subsided, I was again overcome by a strange curiosity to continue reading the inscriptions on the walls. Near the name of Papawuan I found a huge piece of cobwebs, covered with dust and stretched to the very corner. Below it were four or five names, very clearly separated from the others, completely smoothed out. Doton 1815. Poulain 1818. Jean Martin 1821. Kasten 1823. as they call him, he gave a sign to the director of the prison - and at that same second, three or four low doors, almost simultaneously, poured out streams of disgusting, ragged, roaring people into the courtyard. These were convicts. As soon as the convicts took off their rags and exposed themselves for the watchmen to see, to the amusement of curious onlookers, the sky darkened and a cold autumn shower hit, instantly flooding the yard with streams of water, lashing the unfortunates on the heads, naked bodies, soaking through their wretched clothes. ribbons, others were laid out on the pavement taffeta: stretched out on the ground. These ropes are nothing more than long chains with shorter ones placed across them. Each short chain has a collar on one side, closed by a cannonball. The convicts were ordered to sit directly on the mud and puddles of the pavement: the collars were measured... Then two prison blacksmiths appeared with hand anvils and riveted chains on the convicts. At that moment, even the bravest ones turned pale. With each blow of the hammer on the anvil leaning against the back of the tortured, his chin recoils; at the slightest movement of his head forward, his skull could split open like a nut shell. After this operation, the convicts became depressed. All that could be heard was the rattling of chains, and occasionally a scream and the dull blow of the bailiff’s stick on the back of some stubborn man. Some were crying; the old men trembled, biting their lips. I looked with horror at these ferocious faces in their iron frames. So, this show is a drama in three acts; the first is an examination of the guards, the second is a doctoral examination, the third is the shoeing. The sun came out. It seemed to throw fire at the heads of the convicts: they all quickly jumped up from their seats. Five ropes Sentenced to death! they shouted, pointing their fingers at me, and their gaiety doubled. I stood there petrified. Goodbye, comrade! I cannot express what was happening inside me. Comrade! True... Grevskaya Square and Toulon are sister and brother. I was even lower than them: they were not ashamed of me. I was shaking all over. The convicts sat on the edges with their backs to each other, separated by a common chain; lying along the cart. At both ends of the chain stood a guard with a loaded gun. With every push the chains rattled; with each push, the transporters shook their heads and dangled their legs, which were sticking out of the cart. Thin frost swirled in the air, against wet canvas pants, which had turned from gray to black, tightly clinging to their knees. Water flowed from their long beards and short-cropped heads; Everyone’s faces were blue from the cold, they were trembling and gnashing their teeth from the cold and rage. It is impossible to make any other movement. A person, once chained to a common chain, forms the joint of this whole, vile body, called a rope. Here we must renounce thought; a convict's collar is her grave; and as for the animal side of man, these functions also have their own legal hours. Thus, motionless, mostly half-naked, with open heads and dangling legs, they set off on a twenty-five-day journey, piled on carts, in the same clothes, both in the July heat and in the November cold. A conversation began between the crowd and those sitting in the carts: curses were heard on one side, and impudent antics on the other; both threats; but at a sign from the captain, a hail of sticks rained down on the carts, hitting everything: faces, shoulders, and outer silence reigned, or the so-called order. paths for the galleries. I thought: what if the Lord took pity on me and sent at least a bird to the neighboring roof so that it could sing its sweet song to me and comfort me.... Heaven or God, I don’t know which of the two, heard my prayer. Almost at that very moment, under my window, a voice was heard, but not a bird, but the flexible, ringing voice of a young fifteen-year-old girl. I began to eagerly listen to her song. The melody was languid, drawn-out, like the sad cooing of a turtle dove, and here are the words: The watchmen grabbed it - Tra la-la-la, li! But vengeance burned in the eyes and the fists of the unfortunates clenched convulsively. All five carts, accompanied by a platoon of gendarmes and a detachment of foot troops, disappeared one after another under the main gate of Bicêtre; behind them was the sixth, loaded with cauldrons, copper saucepans and spare chains; several lagging soldiers were running after the main detachment. The crowd dispersed and everything disappeared, like the shadows of a magic lantern. Gradually the dull clatter of wheels, the clatter of horses along the Fontainebloss highway, the cracking of whips, the rattling of shackles and the howls of the crowd who wanted unfortunate without floor, without land. And these vile words are sung in such a sweet, sweet voice! And these abominations come from the fresh, rosy lips of a young girl. Like snail mucus on rose leaves. I cannot express what I felt at that moment; I was both pleased and disgusted. What a strange combination of this vile dialect of penal servitude and a den of robbers with the sweet, ringing voice of a young girl! A tender romance, a lovely melody and these rude, dissonant, ugly words! What else do I need? cut down an oak tree , with a look that flatters and at the same time watches me like a spy, this jailer with his thick wide paws is Bicêtre in human form. Having told him all this, I added in a firm voice: “Read!”

(killed a person); and how a wife runs to Versailles to the king asking for mercy, and the king gets angry and replies that he will force her husband

dance in the air kind words as stated in the protocol. However, this journey must be described. This spectacle, one might say, tastes better, like the essence of some drink. Conciergerie. - That's how it is! I thought, “so there are people who grow old in Bicetre.” What news did you tell me about?.. - I told you about another news that is occupying the whole city today! The carriage stopped for a minute at the customs slingshot: city inspectors looked into it. If a bull or a ram were taken to slaughter, the established duty would be paid for them in favor of the city, but a human head is allowed through duty-free. We passed. Me for transportation to Bicetre, in a carriage. It was probably about today's condemned man, who in the evening will go to bed on an armful of straw that I barely crushed. - Okay, the solicitor answered the director: - I'll wait a minute; We’ll write both relationships at the same time! And great. While waiting, I was led into a small room adjacent to the director’s office. The door, of course, was tightly locked. I don’t know what I was thinking about, and how long I had been here, when a rough laugh that sounded right next to my ear woke me up from my reverie. I looked up and shuddered. I was not alone in the room: there was another person with me, a man of about fifty-five, of average height, stooped, with a wrinkled face, grayish hair, gray slanting eyes, with a poisonous smile on his face; dirty, in rags, disgusting. I didn’t even notice how the door opened, spat him out and slammed again. If only death could sneak up on me like this! For several minutes we looked at each other - he continued to laugh - with a laugh that reminded me of the death bell of a dying person; I - with surprise and fear.-- Who you are? I finally said. - Funny question! he answered. I'm fresh.- What is this: fresh food? My question increased his gaiety.“That means,” he answered through laughter, that in six weeks godfather hide it in my basket sorbonne, just like yours churok -- in six hours. Hey! Do you understand now? (These words are explained in Chapter V.) Indeed, I turned pale and the hairs stood on end on my head! It was my successor, again sentenced to death, who was expected in Bicêtre: He continued: “What else do you want to call?” Here, perhaps, is my whole story. I am the son of a clever craftsman; It's just a pity; What Charlot(The executioner) one fine day tied a tie for him. In those days still widow was in use. For six years I was left an orphan: in the summer I did somersaults on passing roads in order to lure a penny or two from those passing by; and in winter he ran barefoot in torn pants through the frozen mud, whistling into his blue fists. Nine years old - he set in motion his oblique(Hands.), on occasion, cleaned pit(Pocket.) , weaved husks(To the galleys.) Hard labor is a hard thing: you sleep on bare boards, drink clean water, eat black bread, carry a cannonball with you, which is of no use; The sun bakes you and roasts you with sticks. And on top of that, my head will be shaved off, but I had nice brown hair! Damn them! outlived! I rattled off years and I’m thirty-two. One fine morning they gave me a passport and sixty-six francs earned in the galleys, sixteen hours a day, thirty days a month, twelve months a year. All the same, I, with my sixty-six francs, decided to settle down, and under my rags my heart began to beat. Damn my damned passport, it was yellow with the signature: was in the galleys. It had to be shown wherever I arrived to live, and every eight days it had to be presented to the mayor of the village where I was ordered rot.(Live.) Nice recommendation! Galernik, convict! They shunned me like a scarecrow, children ran away from me, doors were slammed in my face. Nobody gave me work. I ate my money; but you need to live somehow. I stretched out my healthy arms to people, asking for work, but they pushed me out of the way. I took on daily work for fifteen, ten, five sous. No! What are you going to do here? Once, I was hungry and broke the glass in the bakery, grabbed the bread, and the baker grabbed me. I didn’t even touch the bread, but for this I was sentenced to eternal life in the galleys, and even three letters were burned on my shoulder with a red-hot iron - if you want, I’ll show you. In judicial dialect this is called: secondary encroachment. And so I again drove back(A second time to the galleys.), again to Toulon, and this time under green hat(Sentenced to forever.). It was necessary to sneak away. To do this, it was necessary to dig through three walls, saw two chains - and I had a nail. I gave traction. They fired from a cannon... because we, like Roman cardinals, are honored: they dress us in a red dress and fire from cannons when we leave the courtyard. They burned the gunpowder in vain. This time, it’s true, I was without a yellow ticket, but for that I was without money. I met with friends who, like me, served their time, or gnawed through the net. Their head invited me to join their company, and they the resin was boiled(Killed on highways.) I agreed, and in order to live, I began to kill: now we attacked a stagecoach, now a postal carriage, now a horse-drawn driver. The money was stolen; the carriage or herds were allowed to go in all four directions, and the dead were buried under a tree, and they tried so that their legs did not stick out from under the ground; then they danced on the grave to trample the earth so that no one would notice that it was dug up. So I grew old, sitting on guard in the bushes, spending nights in the open air; wandering from forest to forest... although it’s creepy, but for that I’m free, and my own master. But everything has an end - that’s a known fact. Once at night ropers(The gendarmes) captured us. My comrades fled, and I, like the oldest rat, fell into the claws of cats in three-cornered hats. They dragged me here. I have already walked up all the steps except one. Now, whether it’s for me to steal a handkerchief or to kill a person, it’s all the same, they’ll be punished the same way, for the sake of totality, they'll give it back mower(Executioner.). My investigative work did not last long. Yes, and it’s good, because I’ve already begun to grow old and am good for nothing. my father married a widow(He was hanged.), and I enter the monastery on Lamentable Mountain (I will die in the guillotine.). Here, my friend, is my whole story. Listening to him, I somehow became stupefied. He laughed louder than before and wanted to take my hand. I recoiled in horror.“Friend,” he said, you are clearly not one of the brave ones. Look don't get upset in front of the snub nose(Grevskaya Square.). And then they’ll finish it instantly. It’s a pity that I can’t show you on the spot how to use an ax on a block. Perhaps I won’t even file an appeal so that I could be robbed today for the same thing as you. They will have one pastor, if you want, I’ll give it to you. You see, I'm a good guy. A? What do you think? Deal with each other, or what? . If I had not saluted, he would have beaten me with his strong fists. Out of pity! what's the pity? Bad feelings are boiling inside me. I wanted to strangle this old robber with my own hands! Grind it into dust under your feet! My heart is full of bitterness and rage. I think my gallbladder has ruptured. How angry a person is before death!... he, with red hands?... And all this for me? And I will die! I am sitting here, breathing, moving, sitting at a table that looks like ordinary tables, I am thinking, feeling?... If only I knew the structure of this machine, and how it kills; but to my horror - I don’t know! The name itself is scary, I still can’t understand how I pronounced and wrote this word! Oh, my mercy! Maybe they will still have mercy on me. The king is not angry with me. I’ll ask you to go get a lawyer, get him quickly! I chose the galleys. Five years of hard labor, and that’s the end of it, or twenty, or forever, with the imposition of brands with a red-hot iron. If only life was spared! In addition, the pastor accurately answered the lesson, drilled down and rehearsed twenty times! His eyes were without a look, his voice without feeling, his hands without movement. The food was elegantly prepared, it seemed like fried chicken and something else... I tried to eat, but at the first bite I spat it out... The food seemed bitter and stinking to me!.. A man came in with a hat on his head, who, barely looking at me, took a folding yardstick out of his pocket and began to measure the wall from bottom to top, from time to time saying loudly: - so! or - no, not like that! . Someone lightly touched me on the shoulder, I raised my head. It was the new gendarme, left in my room. This is my ruin. I decided to take tickets to the lottery... I have to do something for a living! Until now, no matter how many ballets I took, they were all dummies. I'm looking and looking for people to win for sure, and I keep spinning around and around. For example, I take number 76, and 77 wins. I change it, and it’s all of little use... Allow me, I’ll finish now: - it seems that, excuse me... they’ll decide on you today. Those executed, they say, probably know the winning numbers. Would you be so kind as to promise to come to my place tomorrow evening... it won’t mean anything to you, and tell me the three correct numbers. Rest assured, I'm not afraid of dead people. And here is my address. Popenkur barracks, staircase A, No. 26, deep in the corridor. You recognize me, don’t you? If you like, please, even this evening. In the secluded garden there is also a young girl. I was silent. - Why are you silent, so boring? asked mamma, “And I have a whole paradise in my heart.” This is what, as far as I can remember, he said to me: “Decided, do you have a good heart?” my life?! Some hour has struck, but I don’t even know what it is: I can barely hear the clock striking. I have a buzzing and howling in my ears; my last thoughts are buzzing. Out of horror, I lay down on the platform, tightly hugging the boards, lifeless, numb, with a terrible buzzing in my ears, with an abyss before my eyes, at the bottom of which people whom I did not envy at that moment were calmly walking. Have they ever put themselves, only mentally, in the place “No,” I answered. My abrupt answer seemed to embarrass him; however, he continued hesitantly;

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There's nothing to do! I will be brave with death, I will take this thought in both hands and look it straight in the face. I’ll ask her what she is, what she wants from me, we’ll look at her from all sides, we’ll solve the riddle, we’ll look into the grave. And I saw... I dreamed that it was night outside. I’m at home, in the office with two or three friends, I just don’t know with whom exactly. I again raised the candle to the old woman’s chin. “You can’t be angry for the sake of pleasure.”- Why not? I objected. If that’s all you wanted to tell me, then you can leave me. Why did you ask me about this? “I’m sorry,” he answered. “Just two words.” Here's the thing: do you want to make the poor man happy? It’s all the same to you. We won’t cost anything... Don’t you dare? I shrugged. - What, are you from a madhouse or what? You chose a strange urn to draw out the lucky lot. How and who can I make happy? Here it is, hellish torment! It is ardent to love only one being in the whole world, to see it in front of you - and it alone sees you, speaks, answers and does not know who you are! To desire joy from this creature, when it is the only one in the whole world and does not know that you need it, because you will die. “Maria,” I said, “do you have a dad?”. They seemed to shed tears when they took my daughter away. - What, are you from a madhouse or what? You chose a strange urn to draw out the lucky lot. How and who can I make happy? It's over! Now I will gather my strength and begin to think intently about the executioner, about the shameful cart, about the gendarmes, about the crowd on the bridge, about the crowd on the embankment, in the windows, and about everyone who will come for me to the Place de Greve, which could be paved with heads that she was cut off at different times.

I still have an hour left to accustom myself to these thoughts.
All these crowds will laugh, clap their hands, and meanwhile, in this crowd of people, free, unfamiliar to the jailer and so joyfully running to watch the execution, out of several thousand of these heads, there will probably be more than one that will sooner or later end up after my head into the red basket.

My little one. She was taken away to play; she now looks out of the carriage window and no longer thinks about it

In the city hall!!... And so, I ended up in it. The damned train is complete. The square is here, under the windows, people are waiting for me, howling, laughing. No matter how I cheered myself up, no matter how strong I became, I failed! I got scared when I saw two huge red hands holding a black triangular axe. I asked to be allowed to make my final testimony. I was brought here and sent for the royal prosecutor. I'm waiting for him... at least it will continue my life! Here: Three o'clock struck, and they came to tell me that it was time. I trembled as if for six hours, six weeks, six months I had been thinking about something else. This struck me as something unexpected. I was led through the corridors and down the stairs. They pushed me into a basement corridor, into a vaulted hall, dimly lit on a foggy day. There was a chair in the middle. I was ordered to sit down; I sat down. he answered. I realized that this gentleman was preparing an article for tomorrow’s newspaper. It was my turn: I stood up quite firmly. - He’s coming along well! said some woman near the gendarmes. The pastor sat down next to me. They sat me on the back bench, with my back to the horse. This last attentiveness made me shudder. Alas! I was shivering not only from the cold. There were some people standing at the doors and at the walls, besides the pastor and the gendarmes, and there were three more people. The first one, taller and older than everyone else, was fat and had a red face. He was wearing a long-brimmed frock coat and a crumpled three-cornered hat. It was...

he!!

Executioner, servant of the guillotine; the other two were his servants.

The story is narrated by a man who was sentenced to death, but for what specific criminal act it is not said, and nothing is known about the personal data of this person. Before the court decision on the death penalty is announced, it seems to the convicted person that death is much better than being an eternal convict and dying in prison without ever seeing freedom. After the death sentence is passed, the hero begins to reflect on life, its end, observance and violation of laws. The convict is haunted by thoughts about his future fate, and he strongly desires to avoid death.

While waiting for death, hours and days fly by, and the condemned man is still unable to believe that he will lose his life. And this will be done not by ruthless criminals, but by law-abiding and kind correctional officers. These good people will not allow him to escape, get sick, or even worse, die before his sentence is executed. Here they will kindly give him something to eat, fulfill his last wishes and... kill him.

Death is approaching, there is very little time left before its execution, so the convict needs to go to the last point - from the place of imprisonment to the place of execution. He should be driven through the streets on a cart for the last time, after which his head should be publicly and demonstratively chopped off. The convict worries about his beloved daughter, thinking that her life will be very, very difficult. These thoughts haunt him.

Shortly before the sentence comes into force, he is allowed to see his daughter, but she does not recognize her father, because the girl is still very young and she has not seen him for almost a year. Thus, he had no joy left in life, except for the great desire to preserve life, to enjoy the sun, the sky and the singing of birds. But soon these opportunities will be taken away from him by a ruthless device - the guillotine.

The story gives the reader the opportunity to think about the expediency of the death penalty, its fairness, ruthlessness and meaninglessness.

You can use this text for a reader's diary

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Current page: 1 (book has 8 pages in total)

Victor Hugo
The last day of a person sentenced to death

The first edition of this work, published without the name of the author, was preceded only by the following lines:

“There are only two possibilities to interpret the appearance of this book: either there really was a stack of yellowed sheets of paper of various sizes on which the last thoughts of the unfortunate sufferer were written; or there was such a person, a dreamer, studying life in the interests of art, a philosopher, a poet, in a word, a person who was carried away by this thought, or, rather, this thought, once it came into his head, captivated him so much that he could get rid of it , only by presenting it in a book.

Let the reader choose which of the two explanations he prefers.”

As is clear from these lines, at the time the book was published, the author did not consider it necessary to fully express his thoughts. He preferred to wait to be understood and find out whether she would be understood. She was understood. And now the author considers it timely to reveal the political and social idea that he wanted to bring to the consciousness of society in an accessible and innocent form of a literary work. So he declares, or rather openly admits, that – this is a direct or indirect, call it what you will, petition for the abolition of the death penalty. His goal - and he would like posterity, if only it stops its attention to such a small thing, to perceive this work - its goal is not the defense of any one specific criminal, which is not so difficult to accomplish from case to case; no, this is a general petition for all those convicted, present and future, for all times; this is a fundamental question of human law, raised and defended loudly before society, as before the highest court of cassation; this is a formidable barrier, abhorrescere a sanguine1
Horror of blood ( lat.).

Erected forever before all lawsuits; this is a terrible, fatal problem that is hidden in the depths of every death sentence, under a triple layer of crackling, bloodthirsty eloquence of the royal minions; this, I repeat, is a problem of life and death, open, naked, cleared of the tinsel of sonorous prosecutorial phrases, brought into the bright light, placed where it should be considered, in its truly terrible environment - not in the courtroom, but on the scaffold, not in the judge, and the executioner.

So, he declares and repeats that his role is that of an intercessor for all possible defendants, guilty or innocent, before all courts and tribunals, before all juries, before all arbiters of justice. This book is addressed to everyone who judges. And in order for the petition to correspond in scale to the problem itself, the author wrote The last day of a person sentenced to death so that in it there was nothing accidental, particular, exceptional, relative, changeable, episodic, anecdotal, no facts, no proper names, he limited himself (if one can call this a limitation) to the defense of the first condemned person he came across, executed on the first day he came across, for the first crime that comes along. And he is happy if, with just the weapon of his word, he managed to penetrate the heart of a judicial official, protected by triple armor, and this heart began to bleed. Happy if he made those who consider themselves just merciful. Happy if he had the luck to dig up a person under the shell of a judge!

Three years ago, when this book was published, some people found it necessary to dispute the authorship of the main idea. Some referred to some English work, others to an American work. It’s a strange fantasy to look for primary sources in God knows where and prove that the stream flowing along your street is fed by the waters of the Nile. Alas! Neither English, nor American, nor Chinese works have anything to do with it. The author did not get the main idea from books Sentenced to death, it is not his custom to go so far for thoughts, he took it where all of you could take it, where it suggested itself, perhaps, from you (for who did not mentally compose or think through Last day of the condemned?) - simply on Grevskaya Square. Walking one day through the fatal square, he picked up this thought in a pool of blood, under the bloody stumps from the guillotine.

And from then on, every time, after the ominous Thursday, the death sentence was publicly announced in the Court of Cassation in Paris, every time the author heard the hoarse cries of heralds under his windows, gathering spectators to the Place de Grève, the painful thought returned to him, captured him. completely, reminded him of the gendarmes, of the executioners, of the mob, hour after hour she depicted for him the dying throes of a sufferer - now they are confessing him, now they are cutting his hair, tying his hands - she encouraged the modest poet to express all this to a society that calmly goes about its business while such a monstrous crime is happening; hurried, pushed him, did not give him rest; if he composed poems, the same thought expelled them from consciousness and killed them in the bud, interfered with all his activities, invaded everywhere, pursued, besieged him, held him captive. It was torture, real torture, it began at dawn and lasted, like the torment of the unfortunate martyr, until four hours. And only when the funeral chime of the clock announced that the sufferer ponens caput expiravit2
He bowed his head and gave up his ghost ( lat.).

The author could take a breath and turn his thoughts to something else. And finally, somehow, it seems the day after Ulbach’s execution, he sat down to write a real book. After that, it was as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. When one of these public crimes, called execution of a judicial sentence, is now committed, his conscience tells him that he is no longer an accomplice; on his brow he no longer feels that drop of blood from the Place de Greve, which falls on the heads of everyone united by this social system.

However, this is not enough. It is good to wash your hands, but it is more important to ensure that no human blood is spilled.

And in fact, is there a better, higher, more worthy goal than this - to achieve the abolition of the death penalty? Therefore, the author wholeheartedly joins the aspirations and efforts of noble people of all nations, who for many years have been making every effort to topple the gallows - the only foundations that have not been overthrown even by revolutions. And he is happy that, in his weakness, he can still drive the ax deeper into the cut that Beccaria made seventy years ago in the old gallows that has towered over the Christian world for so many centuries.

We just said that the scaffold is the only structure that revolutions do not destroy. Indeed, revolutions rarely succeed in not shedding human blood; their purpose is to cleanse society, to cut off its branches and tops, and it is difficult for them to do without such a cleaning tool as the death penalty.

However, in our opinion, of all the revolutions, the most worthy and capable of abolishing the death penalty was the July Revolution. It would seem that it is most likely appropriate for this most humane of the popular movements of our time to abolish the barbaric punitive system of Louis XI, Richelieu and Robespierre and put the inviolability of human life at the head of the laws. 1830 had the right to break the guillotine knife of 1793.

There was a moment when we hoped so. In August 1830, magnanimous, beneficent trends were felt in the air, society was imbued with the spirit of enlightenment and humanity, hearts were opening towards a bright future, and it seemed to us that the death penalty would certainly be abolished, immediately, by silent, unanimous agreement, as a relic of everything bad things that prevented us from living. The people made funny fires out of scraps of the old regime. This flap was bloody. We decided that he ended up in the same pile with the others and was also burned. For several weeks we confidently hoped that in the future both life and liberty would become inviolable.

And in fact, not more than two months later an attempt was made to translate into reality the wonderful utopia of Caesar Bonesan and put it into legal form. Unfortunately, the attempt was clumsy, inept, perhaps insincere, and did not serve the general interest.

Everyone remembers how in October 1830 the chamber, which a few days earlier had rejected the proposal to bury Napoleon’s ashes under the Column, began to scream and moan in unison. The question of the death penalty was brought up for discussion - below we will explain in what connection; and then suddenly, as if by magic, the hearts of the legislators were filled with mercy. Everyone vying with each other took the floor, shouted, raised their hands to the sky. The death penalty! God, what a horror! Some prosecutor general, gray in a red judicial robe, who had spent his entire life eating bread dipped in the blood of the victims of his indictments, would suddenly put on a pitiful face and swear by all the saints that he was an ardent opponent of the guillotine. For two days the podium was besieged by tearful talkers. These were continuous laments, unctuous sighs, mournful psalms, and Superflumina Babylonis3
"On the Rivers of Babylon" ( lat.) are the opening words of Psalm 136.

AND Stabat Mater dolorosa4
“The grieving mother stood” ( lat.) are the opening words of the Catholic hymn.

A whole symphony in a minor key with a choir, performed by an orchestra of speakers who decorate the front benches of the House and spread like nightingales on the days of important meetings. Some were loud, some were fistulous. Nothing was forgotten. It couldn't have been more melodramatic and sensitive. The evening session was especially sweet and heart-wrenching, exactly like the fifth act from Lachausse's play. The simple-minded public did not understand anything and was only moved to tears. 5
It is not our intention to sweepingly ridicule everything that has been said on this subject in the House. Some people said wonderful, truly noble words. We, together with everyone, applauded the stern, simple speech of M. de Lafayette and the brilliant improvisation of M. Villemin, constructed in a completely different way. ( Note author.).

What were we talking about? About the abolition of the death penalty?

Yes and no.

That's how it was.

Four society men, quite correct and well-bred, the kind of people you meet in drawing rooms and exchange a few polite words, so four such people made a daring attempt in the highest political spheres, which according to Bacon qualifies as a “crime”, and according to Machiavelli as “ company". One way or another, the law, equally inexorable for everyone, punishes this with death. And so the four unfortunates found themselves prisoners of the law, imprisoned under the magnificent arches of the Vincennes Castle, protected by three hundred three-color cockades. How can we be here? How to find a way out? You understand, you can’t have four people like you and me, four people from society, sent to the Place de Greve, in a cart, humiliatingly tied with a rough rope, back to back with that servant of the law, whom it is shameful to even name. If only there were a mahogany guillotine!

It's nothing you can do! We will have to abolish the death penalty! And the chamber begins to act.

Remember, gentlemen, that just yesterday you considered the abolition of the death penalty to be utopian and theoretical nonsense, an insane fantasy. Remember that more than once an attempt has been made to draw your attention to the shameful cart, to the thick ropes and to the vile bright red car. It’s strange that all these disgusting attributes only now caught your eye.

Eh! What is there to dig into! It is not for your sake, people, that we are abolishing the death penalty, but for the sake of ourselves, the deputies, - after all, each of us can become a minister! We don't want Guillotin's machine to encroach on the upper classes. We prefer to break it. All the better if it benefits others, but we were only thinking about ourselves. Ukalegon's palace is on fire. We need to put out the fire. The executioner must be immediately abolished and the criminal code cleaned up.

This is how the admixture of personal considerations distorts and mars the best public undertakings. This is a black vein in white marble; it stretches everywhere and is found under the incisor every moment. As a result, the statue must be made again.

It is unnecessary to state here that we are not among those who demanded the execution of the four ministers. After the unfortunates were arrested, indignant indignation at their criminal attempt was replaced in us, like everyone else, by deep pity. We remembered what prejudices were instilled in some of them by their upbringing, how poorly developed the mind of their leader, a stupid, incorrigible fanatic who survived the conspiracies of 1804, turned gray prematurely in the darkness and dampness of state dungeons; we remembered what obligations the position they occupied inevitably imposed on everyone, how difficult, even impossible, it was to stay on the steep slope along which the monarchy, through its own efforts, was rapidly sliding since August 8, 1829, what influence the personality of the king had - this circumstance we have until then they didn’t take it into account enough - and most importantly, they remembered with what dignity one of the conspirators behaved, covering with him, like a purple robe, the general misfortune. We are among those who sincerely wished for their survival and were ready to make every effort to achieve this. If the incredible had happened and a scaffold had been erected for them on the Place de Greve, we have no doubt - and if this is a delusion, then we want to preserve it - we have no doubt that a rebellion would have occurred, and the scaffold would have been overthrown, and the author of these lines would take part in this righteous rebellion. For it must also be said that the scaffold erected during socio-political crises is the most disgusting, the most harmful, the most destructive of all scaffolds, and it must be abolished at all costs.

This kind of guillotine takes root in the pavement and soon sprouts everywhere.

During a revolution, beware of blowing off the first head. It inflames the people's thirst for blood.

So, we personally were in complete solidarity with those who wanted to save the four ministers, in solidarity from all points of view, both humanistic and political. Only we would prefer that the House take another opportunity to abolish the death penalty.

If this long-awaited abolition had been put forward not for the sake of four ministers who rolled from the Tuileries Palace to the Château de Vincennes, but for the sake of the first highwayman you met, for the sake of one of those outcasts whom you do not even notice when you meet on the street, with whom you do not speak, afraid of getting dirty from their fleeting touch; for the sake of one of those unfortunates who, throughout their beggarly childhood, kneaded the street mud with their bare feet, shivered in winter at the parapet of the embankments, warmed themselves under the vents of the kitchen of that very Mr. Vefur, with whom you are dining; for once, they dug up a crust of bread from the trash pit and wiped it off before eating it; spent whole days digging with a nail in the gutter in the hope of finding a copper; they knew no other entertainment except two free spectacles: royal festivities and executions on the Place de Greve; for the sake of one of those disadvantaged people whom hunger drives to theft, and theft to everything else; those stepsons of society who at twelve years old become familiar with prison, at eighteen with hard labor, at forty with the scaffold; one of those bypassed by fate, whom study and work could have turned into decent, honest, useful people, and you, not knowing how to get rid of them, dump them like a useless load, now into the red anthill of Toulon, now into the silent abode of Clamart, you take away their lives, depriving them of their freedom - now, if for the sake of one of them you proposed to abolish the death penalty, oh! then your assembly would be truly worthy, honorable, noble and majestic. Since the time of the Trent church fathers, who invited heretics to an ecumenical council in the name of God's mercy, per viscera Dei, in the hope of converting them, quoniam sancta synodus sperat haereticorum conversionem6
Because the holy council hopes for the conversion of heretics ( lat.).

No assembly would have presented to the world a more valiant, sublime and philanthropic spectacle. It was always fitting for those who are truly strong and truly great to care for the weak and small. How wonderful it would be for a gathering of Brahmins to take the interests of the pariahs under their protection! And the interests of pariahs are the interests of the people. If you abolished the death penalty for the good of the people, and not because you yourself are affected, it would be not only a political act, but also a great social one; case.

And now this cannot even be called a political act, because you tried to abolish the death penalty not for the sake of abolition itself, but in order to save four hapless ministers caught red-handed trying to carry out a coup!

And what happened? Because you were insincere, you were treated with distrust. Seeing that they wanted to deceive him, the people were hostile to the whole undertaking and - surprisingly - stood up in defense of the death penalty, although all its burden falls entirely on them. Your own indiscretion led to this. By approaching the matter in a roundabout, not direct way, you cast a shadow over it for a long time. You performed a comedy. And she was booed.

However, some, out of their kindness, took this farce seriously. Now, after the notorious meeting, the Minister of Justice, a straightforward man, gave the prosecutors an order not to carry out death sentences, postponing them indefinitely. Apparently this was a serious step. Opponents of the death penalty breathed a sigh of relief. But their illusions quickly dissipated.

The trial of the ministers is over. Don't know? what they were sentenced to. In any case, the lives of all four were saved. The Gam fortress was recognized as the golden mean between death and freedom. After all this was settled, all fear disappeared from statesmen in power, and along with fear, humane impulses evaporated. The question of abolishing the death penalty was no longer raised; and since it lost its sharpness, utopia again became utopia, theory - theory, fantasy - fantasy.

Meanwhile, several convicts from among ordinary mortals remained in prisons: the unfortunate people had been walking around the prison yard for five or six months, breathing fresh air, finally calming down, believing that they had been given life, taking a reprieve for a pardon. But it was not there.

To tell the truth, the executioner was very afraid. Having heard legislators talk about philanthropy, humanity, and progress on that significant day, he decided that his case was bad, and hid, hid under his guillotine. He felt uneasy in the bright July sun, like a night bird in the light of day. He tried not to remind anyone of himself, sat hiding, not showing signs of life, covering his ears, afraid to breathe. He was not seen for a whole six months. But little by little he calmed down in his hole. He listened to what was happening in the ward, and no longer heard any mention of his name, nor those loud, sonorous words that frightened him so much. Verbal exercises on the topic have stopped About crimes and punishments, the chamber was engaged in completely different, much more important public affairs - laying a country road, subsidizing the Comic Opera or bleeding one hundred thousand francs from an apoplectic one and a half billion budget. No one else remembered him, the thug. Seeing this, he finally calmed down, stuck his head out of the hole and looked around; then he took one step, then a second, moving like a mouse in one of La Fontaine’s fables, then he grew bolder, crawled out from under the platform, jumped on it and began to repair, correct, polish until it shined, smooth the entire structure, put it into use, lubricate it with lard an old rusty mechanism that has completely fallen into disrepair from inactivity; and then turned around, at random, in the first prison he came across, grabbed by the hair one of those unfortunates who expected that they would be given life, dragged him in, undressed him, tied him up, twisted him, and - the executions resumed as if nothing had happened.

This is hard to believe, but it's true.

Yes, the long-suffering prisoners were given a reprieve of six months and thereby, for no reason whatsoever, aggravated their torment, instilling in them hope for life; and then, without any reason, without any need, so, you live well, one fine morning the reprieve was canceled and these unfortunates were cold-bloodedly thrown under the knife. Please tell me, what did these people bother us with? Lord God! Is there really not enough air for everyone in France?

So that, out of the blue, some official from the Ministry of Justice would get up from his chair and say: “Well! Nobody talks about abolishing the death penalty anymore. It's time to use the guillotine! - for this it is necessary that the heart of a person suddenly becomes the heart of an animal.

It should be emphasized that never in the execution process itself was such cruelty observed as after the July reprieve. Never has the tragedy of Greve been presented so disgustingly and has never demonstrated more clearly the vileness of the death penalty. This aggravated horror rightly lies on the conscience of the people who restored the bloody law. Let them be executed by the work of their own hands. Serves them right.

Let us give two or three examples of the brutal, godless attitude towards the condemned, if only to upset the nerves of the spouses of the royal prosecutors. A woman often plays the role of conscience.

At the end of September last year in the south of France - we cannot accurately indicate either the place, or the day of execution, or the name of the condemned person, but if the very fact is disputed, we undertake to establish all this - I remember it was in Pamiers - so, in At the end of September, a prisoner who was calmly playing cards was visited in prison with a statement that he would die in two hours; the man was seized with trembling - they had not remembered him for six months, and he believed that the terrible punishment had passed him by; he was cut, shaved, tied up, confessed, then put on a cart and, with four gendarmes on his sides, driven through a crowd of onlookers to the place of execution. Until now, everything was going as usual, as it should be. Near the scaffold, the executioner took the sufferer from the hands of the priest, dragged him onto the platform, tied him to a board - in the language of hard labor, “put him in the oven” - and lowered the knife. The heavy iron triangle moved with difficulty, getting stuck every second, crawled down and - this is where the real horror begins - did not kill, but only injured the unfortunate man. Hearing his desperate cry, the executioner became confused, raised the knife and lowered it again. The knife plunged into the martyr’s neck a second time, but did not cut it. The screams of the unfortunate man were joined by the screams of the crowd. The executioner again pulled the knife up, hoping that the third blow would be successful. Nothing happened. Blood gushed from the neck of the condemned man for the third time, but the head did not fly off. In short, the knife rose and fell five times, stabbed into the neck of the condemned man five times, and after each blow the condemned man let out a desperate cry, jerked his still intact head and begged for mercy! The people, unable to tolerate this mockery, began to throw stones at the executioner. The executioner jumped off the platform and hid behind the gendarmes' horses. But that is not all. The condemned man, seeing that he was alone on the scaffold, rose as far as he could from the board and, standing there, terrible, covered in blood, supporting the half-severed head that hung on his shoulder, begged in a barely audible voice to untie him. The crowd, filled with compassion, was about to push back the gendarmes and save the sufferer, who had suffered the death penalty five times, but at that moment the executioner’s assistant, a boy of about twenty, climbed onto the scaffold, ordered the condemned man to lie down on his face so that it would be easier to untie him, and he himself, taking advantage of his gullibility, dying man, jumped on his back and began to clumsily cut the rest of his neck with something like a kitchen knife.

This is not fiction. There were eyewitnesses to this. Yes.

According to the law, a judge was required to be present at the execution. All he had to do was make a sign to put an end to it. What was this man doing, huddled in the corner of the carriage, while another man was being brutally slaughtered? What did the judge, called upon to punish murderers, do while a murder was being committed in broad daylight, right before his eyes, right under the windows of his carriage?

And such a judge was not put on trial! The executioner was not brought to trial! And no one thought to carry out an investigation into such a monstrous mockery of the sacred person of God’s creation, violating all laws!

In the seventeenth century, under Richelieu and Christophe Fouquet, when the barbaric penal code was in force and when the Marquis de Chalet was executed in Nantes by an incompetent soldier, who inflicted thirty-four blows on him instead of one blow with a sword 7
Laporte says twenty-two, but Aubery says thirty-four. De Chalet shouted until the twentieth stroke. ( Note author.)

With a barrel ax - it still seemed illegal to the Parisian parliament, which is why an investigation was launched, and although Richelieu remained unpunished, just as Christophe Fouquet remained unpunished, the soldier was still punished. Of course, this is injustice, but at its core there is a grain of justice. There is no hint of justice here. This happened after the July coup, in the era of progress and softening of morals, a year after the loud lamentations of the chamber regarding the death penalty. And what! This event went completely unnoticed! The Parisian newspapers forgot about it as an insignificant episode. Nobody was worried. They only found out that the guillotine was deliberately damaged by someone who wanted to trip up the executioner, namely one of his henchmen. The executioner kicked him out, and he came up with such revenge.

Three months ago a woman was executed in Dijon. (A woman!) And this time Dr. Guillotin’s mechanism was malfunctioning. The head was not cut off immediately. Then the executioner’s henchmen grabbed the woman by the legs, and, amid the desperate screams of the unfortunate woman, they pulled and pulled until her head was torn from her body.

In Paris, the days of secret executions are returning. After the July days, out of fear, out of cowardice, they no longer dare to chop off heads in public, on the Place de Greve, and so they came up with such a way out. Recently a man was taken from Bicêtre who was sentenced to death, if I am not mistaken, a certain Desandrier; he was shoved into some kind of box on two wheels, tightly closed, locked with locks and bolts; then, with a gendarme in front and a gendarme behind, without publicity and without gatherings, the luggage was delivered to the deserted outpost of Saint-Jacques. It happened at eight in the morning, it was barely dawn, but the newly installed guillotine was already waiting on the spot, and the audience consisted of about a dozen boys perched on piles of stones and staring at the unprecedented machine. The condemned man was pulled out of the cart and, without allowing him to come to his senses, they hastily, shamefully, secretly cut off his head. And this is called an open and solemn act of supreme justice! Vile mockery!

What do the king's servants mean by the word civilization? What have we come to? Justice has been reduced to fraud and subterfuge! The law is twisted as best it can! Unheard of.

Obviously, a person sentenced to death is a danger, since society is trying to deal with him on the sly. However, let's be fair: the execution was not completely kept secret. In the morning, at Parisian crossroads, as usual, leaflets with the death sentence were sold, loudly inviting buyers. This means that there are people who live from their sales. You hear? The crime committed by some unfortunate person, the punishment he suffered, his suffering, his death throes are turned into a commodity, into a printed piece of paper that is sold for a copper. Can you imagine anything more terrible than these coins etched with blood? And who are the people who collect them?

But enough facts. More than enough. Aren't they all terrible? What arguments can you then put forward in defense of the death penalty?

We ask this question not for the sake of saying something; we are waiting for an answer to it; we ask it to criminologists, not to chattering writers. We know that there are people for whom the advantage of the death penalty, like any other topic, is an occasion for an exercise in brilliant paradoxes. There are also those who strongly support the death penalty out of hatred for its opponents. For them it's just a question literary polemics, a question of certain names and persons. These are simply envious people, of which good lawyers, like great artists, never lack. Filangieri always has his Giuseppe Grippa, Michelangelo his Torreggiani, Corneille his Scuderi.

But we are not turning to them, but to lawyers in the true meaning of the word, to sophists, to wise men, to admirers of the death penalty, who see in it beauty, philanthropy, nobility.

Let's listen to their arguments.

From the point of view of those who judge and condemn, the death penalty is necessary. First of all, because it is necessary to remove from human society someone who has already caused harm to it and can do it in the future. But life imprisonment is enough for this. Why death? Are you saying that you can escape from prison? Take better care. If you don't trust the strength of the bars, how do you decide to start a menagerie?

There is no need for an executioner where a jailer is enough.

They will object to us that society must take revenge, must punish. In no case. An individual can take revenge, but God can punish.

Society occupies an intermediate stage. Punishment is above him, revenge is below him. Neither such a sublime nor such a base task suited him; his duty is not to “punish in order to take revenge,” but to educate in order to correct. Change the formula of criminologists in this spirit, and we will understand and support it.

The third and final argument remains - the notorious theory of example. We must set an example! It is necessary to instill fear by clearly showing what fate awaits those who would try to imitate criminals. This is almost verbatim what is repeated in every way in all the indictments of all five hundred courts in France. So there you go! First of all, we deny the very idea of ​​an example. We deny that the spectacle of an execution has the effect that is expected of it. It plays not an edifying, but a corrupting role; it kills pity among the people, and, consequently, all good feelings. We could provide a lot of evidence if we were not afraid to overload our presentation. We will mention only one fact, because it took place quite recently, exactly ten days ago, on March 5, the last day of the carnival. In Saint-Paul, a crowd of masks started a dance around the guillotine, which was still warm after the execution of a certain arsonist Louis Camus. So set an example! The riotous carnival is openly laughing at you!

But if, contrary to reality, you still cling to your ossified theory of a frightening example, then be consistent in the matter of intimidation, revive the 16th century, revive the entire arsenal of torture, revive Farinacci and the masters of the shoulder, revive the gallows, the wheel, the fire, the rack , cut off ears, quarter people, bury people alive in a hole, throw them into a boiling cauldron, open at all Parisian crossroads, along with shop windows, a display case of the executioner’s terrible trophies, where fresh meat will be constantly supplied. Revive Montfaucon, its sixteen pillars supported by rough stone, its cellars full of bones, its beams, hooks, chains, remains of skeletons, the chalk hill polluted by crows, all the varieties of gallows and the smell of corpses that wafts throughout the Faubourg Temple when the wind blows. blows from the northeast. Revive this gigantic domain of the Parisian executioner to its original form. This is truly an example for everyone! Here is the death penalty, elaborated to the point of subtlety. Here is a system of torture with all the proper gradations. This is truly terrifying horror.