CHAPTER VII
MAÎTRE BOULARD
The prisoner who entered the reception-room at the moment when Pique-Vinaigre left it was a man about thirty, with reddish brown hair, a jovial countenance, florid and full; and his short stature made his excessive fatness still more conspicuous. This prisoner, so rosy and plump, was attired in a long and warm dressing-gown of gray kersey, with pantaloons of the same down to his feet. A kind of cap of red velvet, called Perinet-Leclerc, completed this personage's costume, when we add that his feet were thrust into comfortable furred slippers. His gold chain supported a number of handsome seals with valuable stones, and several rings with real stones shone on the red fingers of the détenu, who was called Maître Boulard, a huissier (a law-officer), and accused of breach of trust.
The person who had come to see him was, as we have said, Pierre Bourdin, one of the gardes de commerce (bailiffs) employed to arrest poor Morel, the lapidary. This bailiff was usually employed by Maître Boulard, the huissier of M. Petit-Jean, the man of straw of Jacques Ferrand.
Bourdin, shorter and quite as stout as the huissier, formed himself on the model of his employer, whose magnificence he greatly admired. Very fond as he was of jewelry, he wore on this occasion a superb topaz pin, and a long gilt chain was visible through the buttonholes of his waistcoat.
"Good day, my faithful friend, Bourdin, I was sure you would not fail to come at my summons!" said Maître Boulard, in a joyful tone, and in a small, shrill voice, which contrasted singularly with his large carcass and full-moon face.
"Fail at your summons!" replied the bailiff; "I am incapable of such behaviour, mon général."
This was the appellation by which Bourdin, with a joke at once familiar and respectful, called the huissier, under whose orders he acted; this military appellation being very frequently used amongst certain classes of clerks and civil practitioners.
"I observe with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to misfortune!" said Maître Boulard, with gay cordiality. "However, I was getting a little uneasy, as three days had elapsed, and no Bourdin."
"Only imagine, mon général!– it is really quite a history. You remember that dashing vicomte in the Rue de Chaillot?"
"Saint-Remy?"
"Yes; you know how he laughed at all our attempts to 'nab' him?"
"Yes; he behaved very ill in that way."
"Well, this vicomte has got another title."
"What, is he a comte?"
"No, but from swindler he has become thief!"
"Ah, bah!"
"They are after him for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by the way, they belonged to the jeweller who used to employ that vermin of a Morel, the lapidary we were going to arrest in the Rue du Temple, when a tall, thin chap, with black moustaches, paid for this half-starved devil, and very nearly pitched me and Malicorne headlong down-stairs."
"Ah, yes, yes, I remember; you told me all about it, Bourdin, – it was really very droll! But as to this dashing vicomte?"
"Why, as I tell you, Saint-Remy was charged with robbery, after having made his worthy old father believe that he wished to blow out his brains. A police agent of my acquaintance, knowing that I had been long on the traces of the vicomte, asked me if I could not give him information so that he could 'grab' the dandy. I had learned (too late for myself) that he had 'run to earth' in a farm at Arnouville, five leagues from Paris; but when we got there the bird had flown!"
"But next day he paid that acceptance, – thanks, as I have heard say, to some rich woman!"
"Yes, general; but still I knew the nest, and he might have gone there again, and so I told my friend in the police. He proposed to me to give him a friendly cast of my office and show him the farm, and as I had nothing to do and it was a rural trip, I agreed."
"Well, and the vicomte?"
"Not to be found. After having lurked about the farm for some time, we gained admittance, and returned as wise as we went; and this is why I could not come to your orders sooner, general."
"I was sure it was something of this sort, my good fellow."
"But, if I may be allowed to ask, how the devil did you get here?"
"Wretches, my dear fellow, a set of wretches who, for a miserable sixty thousand francs of which they declare I have wronged them, have charged me with a breach of trust and compelled me to resign my office."
"Really, general! Well, that's unfortunate! And shall I then work for you no longer?"
"I am on half pay now, Bourdin, – on the retired list."
"But who are these vindictive persons?"
"Why, only imagine, one of the most savage of all is a liberated convict, who employed me to recover the amount of a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which it was requisite to bring an action. Well, I brought the action, and got the money and used it; and because, in consequence of some unsuccessful speculations, I swamped that money and several other sums, all these blackguards have assailed me with warrants; and so you find me here, my dear fellow, neither more nor less than a malefactor."
"And does it not alarm you, general?"
"Yes; but the oddest thing of all is that this convict wrote me word some days ago that this money being his sole resource for bad times, and these bad times having arrived (I don't know what he means by that), I was responsible for the crimes he might commit in order to escape from starvation."
"Amusing, 'pon my soul!"
"Very; and the fellow is capable of saying this, but fortunately the law does not recognise any such accompliceships."
"After all, you are only charged with breach of trust?"
"That is all. Do you take me for a thief, Maître Bourdin?"
"Oh, dear general! I meant to say there was nothing very serious in this."
"Why, I don't look very down, do I, my boy?"
"By no means; never saw you looking better. Indeed, if you are found guilty, you will only have two or three months, imprisonment and twenty-five francs fine. I know the law, you see!"
"And these two or three months I shall contrive, I know, to pass quietly in some infirmary. I have a deputy at my elbow."
"Oh, then, you're all right."
"Yes, Bourdin; and I can scarcely help laughing to think what little good the fools who put me here have done themselves, – they will not recover a sou of the money they claim. They compel me to sell my post, – what do I care?"
"True, general; it is only so much the worse for them."
"Yes, my boy. And now for the subject on which I was anxious to see you, Bourdin; it is a very delicate affair, – there is a lady in the case!" said Maître Boulard, with mysterious self-complacency.
"Oh, you gay deceiver! But, be it what it may, you may rely on me."
"I am greatly interested in the welfare of a young actress at the theatre of the Folies-Dramatiques. I pay her rent; but, you know, the absent are always in the wrong! Alexandrine has applied to me for money. Now I have never been a very gay fellow, but yet I do not like to be made a fool of; so, before I comply, I should like to know if the lady is faithful. I know there is nothing more absurd and uncommon than fidelity, and so you will do me a friendly service if you could just watch her for a few days and let me know your opinion, either by a talk with the porter at her abode or – "
"I understand, general," said Bourdin; "this is no worse than watching a debtor. Rely on me; I will have an eye to Mlle. Alexandrine, – although, I should say, you are too generous and too good-looking not to be adored!"
"My good looks are no use, my friend, so long as I am absent; and so I rely on you to discover the truth."
"Rely on me."
"How can I, my dear fellow, prove my gratitude?"
"Don't mention it, general."
"Pray understand, my dear Bourdin, that your fees in this case will be the same as if you were after an arrest."
"I can't allow it, general. As long as I act under your orders, have you not allowed me to shear the debtor to his very skin, – to double, treble, the costs of arrests? And have you not sued for those costs for me as eagerly as if they were due to yourself?"
"But, my dear fellow, this is very different; and, in my turn, I declare I will not allow it."
"Mon général, you will really make me quite ashamed if you do not allow me to make these inquiries as to Mlle. Alexandrine as a poor proof of my gratitude."
"Well, well; be it so. I will no longer contend with your generosity; and your devotion will be a sweet reward to me for considerations I have always mixed up in our transactions."
"Very good, general; and now we understand each other. Is there anything else I can do for you? You must be very uncomfortable here. I hope you are à la pistole (in a private room)?"
"Yes; I came just in time to get the only empty room, – the others are being repaired. I have made myself as comfortable as possible in my cell, and am not so very miserable. I have a stove and a very nice easy chair; I make three long meals a day, and my digestion is good; then I walk and go to sleep. Except my uneasiness about Alexandrine I have not so much to complain of."
"But for you who were such an epicure, general, the prison diet is very poor."
"Why, there is an excellent cookshop in my street, and I have a running account with him, and so every two days he sends me a very nice supply. And, by the way, I would get you to ask his wife – a nice little woman is Madame Michonneau – to put into the basket a bit of pickled thunny. It is in season now, and relishes one's wine."
"Capital idea!"
"And tell Madame Michonneau to send me a basket of various wines, – burgundy, champagne, and bordeaux, – like the last; she'll know what I mean. And tell her to put in two bottles of old cognac of 1817, and a pound of pure Mocha, fresh roasted and ground."
"I'll put down the date of the cognac, lest I should forget it," said Bourdin, taking a memorandum-book from his pocket.
"As you are writing, my good fellow, be so good as make a minute of my wish to have an eider-down quilt from my house."
"All shall be done to the letter, general; make your mind easy. And now I shall be comfortable about your living. But your walks; you are compelled to take them along with those ruffians confined here?"
"Yes; and it's really very lively and animated. I go down after breakfast; sometimes I go into one yard, sometimes another, and I mix with the mob. Really they appear very good sort of fellows! Some of them are very amusing. The most ferocious are collected in what is called the Fosse aux Lions. Ah, my good fellow, what hang-dog-looking fellows there are amongst them. There's one they call the Skeleton, – I never saw such a creature."
"What a singular name!"
"He is so thin, or rather bare of flesh, that this is the nickname which has been given to him; he is really frightful. He is, besides, director of his ward, and, moreover, an infernal villain. He has just left the galleys, and went directly to murder and assassination. But his last murder was really horrible, as he knew he should be condemned to death without chance of remission; but he laughs at it."
"What a scoundrel!"
"All the prisoners admire and tremble before him. I got into his good graces at once by offering him some cigars, and so he made a friend of me at once, and offered to teach me slang; and I have made considerable progress."
"Oh, what an idea! – my general learning slang!"
"I amuse myself as much as I can, and all these fellows adore me. I am not proud like a young fellow they call Germain, who gives himself the airs of a lord."
"But he must be delighted at meeting with such a gentleman as you, even if he is disgusted with the others."
"Why, really, he did not seem even to notice that I was there; but, if he had, I should have taken care how I took any notice of him. He is the bête noire of the whole prison, and some day or other they'll play him a slippery trick; and, pardieu! I have no wish to come in for my share of what may befall him."
"You're right."
"It would interfere with my pleasures, for my walk with the prisoners is really a pleasure to me; only these ruffians have no great opinion of me morally. You see, my accusation of a simple breach of trust is contemptible in the eyes of these out-and-outers; and they look on me as a nobody."
"Why, really, with such criminals you are – "
"A mere chicken, my dear fellow. But do not forget my commissions."
"Make your mind easy, general. First, Mlle. Alexandrine; second, the fish-pie and basket of wine; third, the old cognac of 1817, the ground coffee, and the eider-down quilt; you shall have it all. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, I forgot. You know the address of M. Badinot?"
"The agent? Yes."
"Well, be so kind as to call on him, and say that I rely on his friendship to find me a barrister such as my case requires, and that I shall not stand for forty or fifty pounds."
"I'll see M. Badinot, depend upon it, general; and all your commissions shall be attended to this evening, and to-morrow you shall receive all you wish for. So good day, and a happy meeting to us soon, mon général."
"Good-bye, my worthy friend!" And the prisoner quitted the parlour at one door, and the visitor by the other.
Let us now compare the crime of Pique-Vinaigre with that of M. Boulard, the huissier. Compare the beginning of the two, and the reasons, the necessities, which impelled them to evil. Compare, too, the punishment which awaited them respectively. The one, driven by his hunger and need, robs. He is apprehended, judged, and sentenced to fifteen or twenty years of hard labour and exposure. Property is sacred, and he who, in the night, breaks for plunder should undergo sacred punishment. But ought not the well-informed, intelligent, rich man who robs – not to satisfy hunger, but his caprices or gambling in the stocks – to be punished? Yet for the public spoliator there is two months' imprisonment; for the relapsed convict twenty years' hard labour and exposure. What can we add to these facts, which speak for themselves?
The old turnkey kept his word; and when Boulard left the parlour, Germain entered, and Rigolette was only separated from him by a light wire grating.
CHAPTER VIII
FRANÇOIS GERMAIN
Although the features of Germain could not be styled regular, it was scarcely possible to see a more interesting countenance. There was an air of ease and elegance about him, while his slight, graceful figure, plain but neatly arranged dress (consisting of a pair of gray trousers and black frock coat, buttoned up to the chin), formed a striking contrast to the slovenliness and neglect to which the occupants of the prison generally gave themselves up; his white hands and well-trimmed nails evinced an attention to his personal appearance which had still further excited the ill-will of the prisoners against him, for bodily neglect is almost invariably the accompaniment of moral perversion. He wore his long and naturally curling chestnut hair parted on one side of his forehead, according to the fashion of the day, a style that well became his pale and melancholy countenance, and large, clear blue eyes, beaming with truth and candour; his smile, at once sweet and mournful, expressed benevolence of heart, mingled with a habitual dejection, for, though young, the unfortunate youth had already deeply tasted affliction.
Nothing could be imagined more touching than the look of suffering impressed on his features, while the gentle and resigned cast of his whole physiognomy was but a fair transcript of the mind within, for a better, purer, or more upright heart could scarcely have beaten in human form.
The very cause of his imprisonment (divested of the calumnious aggravations affixed to it by Jacques Ferrand) proved the goodness of his nature, and left him worthy of blame only for suffering himself to be led astray by his feelings to commit an action decidedly wrong, but still excusable if it be remembered that the son of Madame Georges felt perfectly sure of replacing on the following morning the sum temporarily taken from the notary's cash-box, for the purpose of saving Morel the lapidary, from being dragged from his family and confined in a prison.
Germain coloured slightly as he perceived, through the grating of the visitor's room, the bright and charming countenance of Rigolette, who strove, as usual, to appear gay, in hopes of encouraging and enlivening her protégé a little; but the poor girl was too bad a dissembler to conceal the sorrow and agitation she invariably experienced upon entering the prison. She was seated on a bench at the outside of the grating, holding her straw basket on her lap.
Instead of remaining in the adjoining passage, from whence every word could be heard, the old turnkey retired to the stove placed at the very extremity of the visiting-room, closed his eyes, and in a very few seconds was (as his breathing announced) fast asleep, leaving Germain and Rigolette at perfect liberty to converse at their ease.
"Now then, M. Germain," cried the grisette, placing her pretty face as closely as she could to the grate, the better to examine the features of her friend, "let me see what sort of a countenance you have got to-day, and whether it is less sad than it was? Humph, humph – only middling! Now, do you know that I've a great mind to be very angry with you?"
"Oh, no, you are too good for that. But how very kind of you to come again so soon!"
"So soon! Does it seem to you so soon? You mean by those words to reproach me for coming so frequently. Well – "
"Have I not good cause to find fault with you for taking so much pains and trouble for me, while I, alas! can merely thank you for all your goodness?"
"That is a little mistake of yours, my fussy friend, because the little services in my power to render you afford me quite as much pleasure as they do you; so that, you see, I am as much bound to say 'Thank you for all favours,' as you are. So, you see, I am not to be cheated that way. And now I think of it, the best way to punish you for such very improper ideas will be not to give you what I have brought for you."
"What! Another proof of your thoughtful care of me? Oh, you spoil me – you do, indeed! I shall be fit for nothing but to be somebody's pet when (if ever, alas!) I get out of prison. A thousand thanks! Nay, you must pardon my using that word, although it does displease you. But, indeed, you leave me nothing else to say."
"Ah, but don't be in such a hurry to thank me, before you even know what I have brought!"
"Why, what do I care what it is?"
"Well, I'm sure that's very civil, M. Germain!"
"Nay, I only meant to say that, be it what it may, it must needs be dear and precious to me, since it comes from you. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, your unwearied kindness, your touching sympathy, fills me with the deepest gratitude, and – and – " But finding it impossible to conclude the sentence, Germain cast down his eyes and remained silent.
"Well," said Rigolette, "and what else?"
"And – devotion!" stammered out Germain.
"Why could you not have said 'respect,' as people write at the end of a letter?" asked Rigolette, impatiently. "Ah, but I know very well that was not what you were going to say, else why did you stop all of a sudden?"
"I assure you – "
"There, don't endeavour to assure me of anything; I can see you are blushing through this grating. Now why can't you speak out, and tell me every thought and wish of your heart? Am I not your true and faithful friend as well as old companion?" continued the grisette, timidly, for she but waited the confession of Germain's love for her to tell him frankly and sincerely how truly she returned his affection with a passion as true and as generous as his own.
"I assure you Mlle. Rigolette," said the poor prisoner with a sigh, "that I had nothing else to say, and that I am concealing nothing whatever from you."
"For shame for shame," cried Rigolette, stamping her foot; "don't tell such stories. Now, look here," continued she, drawing a large, white, woollen neck wrapper from her basket; "do you see this beautiful thing? Well, I brought it on purpose for you. But now – to punish you for being so deceitful and sly – I will not give it to you. I knitted it on purpose for you, too; for, said I, it must be so damp and cold in those yards in the prison. And this nice, soft, woollen handkerchief is just the thing to keep him warm; he is so delicate!"
"And is it possible you – "
"Yes, sir, I said you were delicate – and so you are," cried Rigolette, interrupting him. "I suppose I may recollect, if I please, how chilly you used to be of an evening, though all the time you tried to conceal it, that you might hinder me from putting more wood on my fire when you came to sit with me. I've got a good memory, I can tell you; so don't contradict me."
"And so have I," replied Germain, in a voice of deep feeling "far too good for my present position;" and, with these words, he passed his hand across his eyes.
"Now then, I declare, I believe you are falling into low spirits again, though I so strictly forbade it."
"How is it possible for me to avoid being moved even to tears, when I recollect all you have done for me ever since I entered this prison? And is not your last kind attention another proof of your amiable care for me? And do I not know that you are obliged to work at night to make up for the time it occupies for you to visit me in my misfortunes, and that on my account you impose additional labour and fatigue on yourself?"
"Oh, if that be all you have to be miserable about I beg you will make very short work of it. Truly, I deserve a great deal of pity for taking a nice refreshing walk two or three times a week just to see a friend – I who so dearly love walking – and having a good stare at all the pretty shops as I come along."
"And see, to-day, too, what weather you have ventured out in! Such wind and rain! Oh, it is too selfish of me to permit you thus to sacrifice your health for me!"
"Oh, bless you, the wind and rain only make the walk more amusing. You have no idea what very droll sights one sees, – first comes a party of men holding on their hats with both hands, to prevent the storm from carrying them away; then you see an unfortunate individual with his umbrella blown inside out, making the most ludicrous grimaces, and shutting his eyes while the wind drives him about like a peg-top. I declare, all the way I came along this morning, it was more diverting than going to a play. I thought I should make you laugh by telling you of it; but there you are looking more dull, and solid, and serious than ever!"
"Pray forgive me if I cannot be as mirthful as your kind heart would have me; you know I never have what is styled high spirits, and just now I feel it impossible even to affect them."
Rigolette was very desirous of concealing that, spite of her lively prattle, she was to the full as sad and heavy-hearted as Germain himself could be. She therefore hastened to change the conversation by saying:
"You say it is impossible for you to conquer your low spirits, but there are other things you choose to style impossibilities I have begged and prayed of you to do, because I very well know you could, if you chose."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean your obstinate avoidance of all the other prisoners, and never speaking to one of them; the turnkey has just been talking to me about it, and he says that for your own sake you ought to associate with them a little. I am sure it would not do you any harm; you do not speak; it is always the way. I see very well you will never be satisfied till these dreadful men have played you some dangerous trick in revenge."
"You know not the horror with which they inspire me, any more than you can guess the personal reasons I have for avoiding and execrating them, and all who resemble them."
"Indeed, but I do know your reasons! I read the accounts you wrote for me, and which I went to fetch away from your lodgings after your imprisonment; from them I learned all the dangers you had incurred upon your arrival in Paris, because, when you were in the country, you refused to participate in the crimes of the bad man who had brought you up; and that it was in consequence of the last snare they laid to catch you that you quitted the Rue du Temple, without telling any one but me where you had gone to. And I read something else, too, in those papers," said Rigolette, casting down her eyes, while a bright blush dyed her cheeks; "I read things that – that – "
"You would never have known, I solemnly declare," exclaimed Germain, eagerly, "had it not been for the misfortune which befell me. But let me ask you to be as generous as you are good; forget and pardon my past follies, my insane hopes. 'Tis true, in times past I ventured to indulge such dreams, wild and unfounded as they were."
Rigolette had endeavoured a second time to draw a confession of his love from the lips of Germain by alluding to those tender and passionate effusions written by him, and dedicated to the remembrance of the grisette, for whom, as we have before stated, he had always felt the sincerest affection; but, the better to preserve the confiding familiarity with which he was treated by his pretty neighbour, he concealed his regard under the semblance of friendship.
Rendered more timid and sensitive by imprisonment, he could not for an instant believe it possible for Rigolette to reciprocate the attachment of a poor prisoner like himself, whose character was, moreover, tarnished by so foul an accusation as he laboured under, while previous to this calamity she had never manifested more than a sisterly interest in him. The grisette, finding herself so little understood, stifled a sigh, and awaited with hopeful eagerness a better opportunity of opening the eyes of Germain to the real state of her heart. She contented herself, therefore, with merely replying:
"To be sure, it is quite natural the sight of these wicked men should fill you with horror and disgust; but that is no reason for your exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers."
"I assure you that, in order to follow your advice, I have endeavoured to force myself to converse with such as seemed the least depraved among them; but you can form no notion what dreadful men they are, or what shocking language they talk."
"I dare say they do, poor unfortunate creatures! It must be horrid to hear them."
"But there is something more terrible than that, the getting gradually used to the disgusting conversations which, in spite of yourself, you are compelled to hear all day long. Yes, I am sorry to say, I now hear with gloomy indifference horrible remarks and speeches that would have excited my utmost indignation when I first came here. So, you see," continued Germain, bitterly, "I begin to be more afraid of myself than I am of them."
"Oh, M. Germain!"
"I am sure of it," pursued the unfortunate young man. "After a residence within a prison in company with such as are always to be found assembled there, the mind becomes accustomed to guilty thoughts, in the same manner as the ear gets inured to the coarse and vulgar expressions continually in use. Oh, God, I can well believe how possible it is to enter these walls innocent of the crimes ascribed to one, and to leave them with principles utterly and irretrievably perverted!"
"But you never could be so changed! Oh, no, not you!"
"Ay, me, and others twenty times better than myself! Alas, alas! those who condemn men to this fearful association little think that they expose their fellow creatures to breathe an air laden with the direst moral contagion, and inevitably fatal to every right or honourable feeling!"
"Pray do not go on so! You know not how you grieve me!"
"Nay, I but wished to explain to you why I am daily more and more melancholy. I wished not to have said so much, but I have only one way of repaying the pity you have evinced for me."
"Pity? Pity? Indeed – "
"Pardon me for interrupting you, but the only way by which I can acquit myself towards you is to speak with perfect candour; and, with shuddering alarm, I confess that I am no longer the same person I was. In vain do I fly these unfortunate wretches, their very presence, their contact seems to take effect on me; in spite of myself, I seem to feel a fatal influence in breathing the same atmosphere, as though the moral pestilence entered at every pore, and rested not till it had mingled with the heart's blood. Should I even be acquitted on my trial, the very sight of, and association with, good and virtuous men would cover me with shame and confusion; for, though I have not yet been able to find pleasure in the society of my companions, I have, at least, learned to dread the day when I shall again mix with persons of respectability, because now I am conscious of my weakness and cowardice; for is not he guilty of both who dares to make a compromise with his duties or his honesty? And have not I done so? When I first came here I did not deceive myself as to the extent of my fault, however excusable the circumstances under which it was committed might have seemed to make it; but now it appears to me an offence of a trifling description when compared with the crimes of which the robbers and murderers by whom I am surrounded make daily boast. And I sometimes surprise myself envying their audacious indifference, and blaming myself with my own weak regrets for so insignificant an action."
"And so it was an insignificant action, far more generous than wrong. Why, what did you do but borrow for a few hours a sum of money you knew you could replace on the following morning; and that, too, not for yourself, but to save a whole family from ruin, perhaps death."
"That matters not, it was a theft in the eyes of the law and all honest men. Doubtless it is better to rob with a good motive than a bad one, but it is a fearful thing to be obliged to seek an excuse for oneself by comparing one's own guilt with that of persons far beneath ourselves. I can no longer venture to compare my actions with those of upright persons, consequently, then, I am compelled to institute a comparison between myself and the degraded beings with whom I live; so that I plainly perceive in the end the conscience becomes hardened and is put to sleep. The next theft I commit, probably without the prospect of replacing the money, but from mere cupidity, I might still find an excuse for myself by comparing my conduct with that of a man who adds murder to theft; and yet at this moment there is as great a difference between me and a murderer as there is between a person of untainted character and myself. So, because there are beings a thousand times more degraded and debased than I am, by degrees my own degradation would become diminished in my estimation; instead of being able to say, as I once could, 'I am as honest a man as any I meet with,' I shall be obliged to content myself with saying I am the least guilty of the vile wretches among whom I am condemned for ever to live."