Derues | Page 6

criminal
himself, who wanted the game to be properly played to the end, and
who actually selected a suitable tree for his own execution.
"But, Pierre," said one of the judges, "how can you be held up there?"
"How stupid you are!" returned the captive. "I shall only pretend to be
hung, of course. See here!" and he fastened together several pieces
strong string which had tied some of the other boys' books, piled the
latter together, and standing on tiptoe on this very insecure basis,

fastened one end of the cord to a horizontal bough, and put his neck
into a running knot at the other end, endeavouring to imitate the
contortions of an actual sufferer. Shouts of laughter greeted him, and
the victim laughed loudest of all. Three archers went to call the rest to
behold this amusing spectacle; one, tired out, remained with the
prisoner.
"Ah, Hangman," said Pierre, putting out his tongue at him, "are the
books firm? I thought I felt them give way."
"No," replied Antoine; it was he who remained. "Don't be afraid,
Pierre."
"It is a good thing; for if they fell I don't think the cord is long enough."
"Don't you really think so?"
A horrible thought showed itself like a flash on the child's face. He
resembled a young hyena scenting blood for the first time. He glanced
at the pile of books Pierre was standing on, and compared it with the
length of the cord between the branch and his neck. It was already
nearly dark, the shadows were deepening in the wood, gleams of pale
light penetrated between the trees, the leaves had become black and
rustled in the wind. Antoine stood silent and motionless, listening if
any sound could be heard near them.
It would be a curious study for the moralist to observe how the first
thought of crime develops itself in the recesses of the human heart, and
how this poisoned germ grows and stifles all other sentiments; an
impressive lesson might be gathered from this struggle of two opposing
principles, however weak it may be, in perverted natures. In cases
where judgment can discern, where there is power to choose between
good and evil, the guilty person has only himself to blame, and the
most heinous crime is only the action of its perpetrator. It is a human
action, the result of passions which might have been controlled, and
one's mind is not uncertain, nor one's conscience doubtful, as to the
guilt. But how can one conceive this taste for murder in a young child,
how imagine it, without being tempted to exchange the idea of eternal
sovereign justice for that of blind -fatality? How can one judge without
hesitation between the moral sense which has given way and the
instinct which displays itself? how not exclaim that the designs of a
Creator who retains the one and impels the other are sometimes
mysterious and inexplicable, and that one must submit without

understanding?
"Do you hear them coming?" asked Pierre.
"I hear nothing," replied Antoine, and a nervous shiver ran through all
his members.
"So much the worse. I am tired of being dead; I shall come to life and
run after them. Hold the books, and I will undo the noose."
"If you move, the books will separate; wait, I will hold them."
And he knelt down, and collecting all his strength, gave the pile a
violent push.
Pierre endeavoured to raise his hands to his throat. "What are you
doing?" he cried in a suffocating voice.
"I am paying you out;" replied Antoine, folding his arms.
Pierre's feet were only a few inches from the ground, and the weight of
his body at first bent the bough for a moment; but it rose again, and the
unfortunate boy exhausted himself in useless efforts. At every
movement the knot grew tighter, his legs struggled, his arms sought
vainly something to lay hold of; then his movements slackened, his
limbs stiffened, and his hands sank down. Of so much life and vigour
nothing remained but the movement of an inert mass turning round and
round upon itself.
Not till then did Antoine cry for help, and when the other boys hastened
up they found him crying and tearing his hair. So violent indeed were
his sobs and his despair that he could hardly be understood as he tried
to explain how the books had given way under Pierre, and how he had
vainly endeavoured to support him in his arms.
This boy, left an orphan at three years old, had been brought up at first
by a relation who turned him out for theft; afterwards by two sisters, his
cousins, who were already beginning to take alarm at his abnormal
perversity. This pale and fragile being,