“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is
innocent.”
“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer
as guilty. She is to be tried today, and I hope,
I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced
in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human
being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no
fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could
be brought forward strong enough to convict her.
My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding
horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar.
Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator,
who would believe, unless his senses convinced him,
in the existence of the living monument of presumption
and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the
world?
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered
her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with
loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years.
There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility
and intellect. She welcomed me with the greatest
affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,”
said she, “fills me with hope. You perhaps
will find some means to justify my poor guiltless
Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted
of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly
as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly
hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling
boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is
to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she
is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But
she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall
be happy again, even after the sad death of my little
William.”
“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said
I, “and that shall be proved; fear nothing,
but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of
her acquittal.”
“How kind and generous you are! every one else
believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched,
for I knew that it was impossible: and to see
every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered
me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.
“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry
your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent,
rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality.”
We passed a few sad hours until eleven o’clock,
when the trial was to commence. My father and
the rest of the family being obliged to attend as
witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During
the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered
living torture. It was to be decided whether
the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow beings: one
a smiling babe full of innocence and joy, the other
far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation
of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
