“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other,
his uncle’s accusers, and tore out their eyes
to teach the others never to state what they had seen
with their eyes.
“He killed all the relatives, all the connections
of his enemy’s family. He slew during his
life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses of
his adversaries, and was, up to the day of his death,
the most terrible of all the bandits whose memory
we have preserved.”
The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall
shadow of the granite mountain went to sleep on the
granite of the valley. We quickened our pace
in order to reach before night the little village of
Albertaccio, nothing but a pile of stones welded into
the stone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said
as I thought of the bandit:
“What a terrible custom your vendetta is!”
My companion answered with an air of resignation:
“What would you have? A man must do his
duty!”
The seventeenth of July, one thousand eight hundred
and eighty-three, at half-past two in the morning,
the watchman in the cemetery of Besiers, who lived
in a small cottage on the edge of this field of the
dead, was awakened by the barking of his dog, which
was shut up in the kitchen.
Going down quickly, he saw the animal sniffing at
the crack of the door and barking furiously, as if
some tramp had been sneaking about the house.
The keeper, Vincent, therefore took his gun and went
out.
His dog, preceding him, at once ran in the direction
of the Avenue General Bonnet, stopping short at the
monument of Madame Tomoiseau.
The keeper, advancing cautiously, soon saw a faint
light on the side of the Avenue Malenvers, and stealing
in among the graves, he came upon a horrible act of
profanation.
A man had dug up the coffin of a young woman who had
been buried the evening before and was dragging the
corpse out of it.
A small dark lantern, standing on a pile of earth,
lighted up this hideous scene.
Vincent sprang upon the wretch, threw him to the ground,
bound his hands and took him to the police station.
It was a young, wealthy and respected lawyer in town,
named Courbataille.
He was brought into court. The public prosecutor
opened the case by referring to the monstrous deeds
of the Sergeant Bertrand.
A wave of indignation swept over the courtroom.
When the magistrate sat down the crowd assembled cried:
“Death! death!” With difficulty the presiding
judge established silence.
Then he said gravely:
“Defendant, what have you to say in your defense?”
Courbataille, who had refused counsel, rose.
He was a handsome fellow, tall, brown, with a frank
face, energetic manner and a fearless eye.
Paying no attention to the whistlings in the room,
he began to speak in a voice that was low and veiled
at first, but that grew more firm as he proceeded.
