Half of the jury were blowing their noses violently
to keep from crying. The women in the courtroom
were sobbing.
The president asked her:
“Where did you bury the other one?”
“The one that you have?” she asked.
“Why, this one—this one was in the
artichokes.”
“Oh, then the other one is among the strawberries,
by the well.”
And she began to sob so piteously that no one could
hear her unmoved.
The girl Rosalie Prudent was acquitted.
Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes “Father
Saval,” had just risen from bed. He was
weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves
were falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like
a heavier and slower rain. M. Saval was not in
good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to
the window, and from the window to the fireplace.
Life has its sombre days. It would no longer
have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor,
with nobody about him. How sad it is to die alone,
all alone, without any one who is devoted to you!
He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty.
He recalled former days, the days of his childhood,
the home, the house of his parents; his college days,
his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his
father’s illness, his death. He then returned
to live with his mother. They lived together
very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last
the mother died. How sad life is! He lived
alone since then, and now, in his turn, he, too, will
soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will
be the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval
upon the earth. What a frightful thing!
Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people
will go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer
exist! Is it not strange that people can laugh,
amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal certainty
of death? If this death were only probable, one
could then have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as
inevitable as that night follows the day.
If, however, his life had been full! If he had
done something; if he had had adventures, great pleasures,
success, satisfaction of some kind or another.
But no, nothing. He had done nothing, nothing
but rise from bed, eat, at the same hours, and go
to bed again. And he had gone on like that to
the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken
unto himself a wife, as other men do. Why?
Yes, why was it that he had not married? He might
have done so, for he possessed considerable means.
Had he lacked an opportunity? Perhaps! But
one can create opportunities. He was indifferent;
that was all. Indifference had been his greatest
drawback, his defect, his vice. How many men
wreck their lives through indifference! It is
so difficult for some natures to get out of bed, to
move about, to take long walks, to speak, to study
any question.
