Thus
it happened that I saw Prosper Magnan when he was brought to the
prison. He inspired me with the profoundest pity. Though pale,
distracted, and covered with blood, his whole countenance had a
character of truth and innocence which struck me forcibly. To me his
long fair hair and clear blue eyes seemed German. A true image of my
hapless country. I felt he was a victim and not a murderer. At the
moment when he passed beneath my window he chanced to cast about him
the painful, melancholy smile of an insane man who suddenly recovers
for a time a fleeting gleam of reason. That smile was assuredly not
the smile of a murderer. When I saw the jailer I questioned him about
his new prisoner.
"He has not spoken since I put him in his cell," answered the man. "He
is sitting down with his head in his hands and is either sleeping or
reflecting about his crime. The French say he'll get his reckoning
to-morrow morning and be shot in twenty-four hours."
That evening I stopped short under the window of the prison during the
short time I was allowed to take exercise in the prison yard. We
talked together, and he frankly related to me his strange affair,
replying with evident truthfulness to my various questions. After that
first conversation I no longer doubted his innocence; I asked, and
obtained the favor of staying several hours with him.
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