Then, with a gesture to those who surrounded Rouletabille:
“Do your duty, messieurs.”
“Pardon, pardon. But if I do prove the
innocence of Natacha? Just wait, messieurs.
There is only I who can prove that innocence!
You lose Natacha by killing me!”
“If you had been able to prove that innocence,
monsicur, the thing would already be done. You
would not have waited.”
“Pardon, pardon. It is only at this moment
that I have become able to do it.”
“How is that?”
“It is because I was sick, you see — very
seriously sick. That affair of Michael Nikolaievitch
and the poison that still continued after he was dead
simply robbed me of all my powers. Now that I
am sure I have not been the means of killing an innocent
man — I am Rouletabille again! It is not
possible that I shall not find the way, that I shall
not see through this mystery.”
The terrible voice of the Christ-like figure said
monotonously:
“Do your duty, messieurs.”
“Pardon, pardon. This is of great importance
to you — and the proof is that you have not
yet hanged me. You were not so procrastinating
with my predecessor, were you? You have listened
to me because you have hoped! Very well, let
me think, let me consider. Oh, the devil!
I was there myself at the fatal luncheon, and I know
better than anyone else all that happened there.
Five minutes! I demand five minutes of you;
it is not much. Five little minutes!”
These last words of the condemned man seemed to singularly
influence the revolutionaries. They looked at
one another in silence.
Then the president took out his watch and said:
“Five minutes. We grant them to you.”
“Put your watch here. Here on this nail.
It is five minutes to seven, eh? You will give
me until the hour?”
“Yes, until the hour. The watch itself
will strike when the hour has come.”
“Ah, it strikes! Like the general’s
watch, then. Very well, here we are.”
Then there was the curious spectacle of Rouletabille
standing on the hangman’s stool, the fatal rope
hanging above his head, his legs crossed, his elbow
on his knees in that eternal attitude which Art has
always given to human thought, his fists under his
jaws, his eyes fixed — all around him, all those
young men intent on his silence, not moving a muscle,
turned into statues themselves that they might not
disturb the statue which thought and thought.
A SINGULAR EXPERIENCE
The five minutes ticked away and the watch commenced
to strike the hour’s seven strokes. Did
it sound the death of Rouletabille? Perhaps not!
For at the first silver tinkle they saw Rouletabille
shake himself, and raise his head, with his face alight
and his eyes shining. They saw him stand up,
spread out his arms and cry:
