The effect of this complicated verdict was the
conviction of both prisoners, with (by a majority)
extenuating circumstances in favour of the
woman.

For the first time during the proceedings,
Dumollard's coolness seemed to desert him. His
countenance became perfectly livid; his eyes
glared wildly round. At this moment, perhaps,
the full horror of his position first revealed itself
to his stubborn intelligence. There occurred, too,
one of those dramatic pauses which give time for
a scene of peculiar interest and solemnity to
impress itself ineffaceably on the memory.
Throughout the dimly-lighted court nothing was
to be seen but bowed heads, or stern still faces,
waiting for the word of doom: not without a
sense of that humiliation which even in the very
act of justice confesses with reluctance the possibility
of guilt so monstrous, in the human form.
Hunger makes the wolf savage, "yet with his
kind he gently doth consort." Here was a man
who, to pamper the lowest passions of which
nature is susceptible, had literally waded in the
blood of the most helpless and innocent of his
kind.

It was the voice of the procureur-general that
broke the hush, praying the court to grant
the application of certain articles of the penal
code. The prisoners, called upon to add
what they pleased to their defence, made no
reply.

Then, the president, after reading the articles
applicable to the case, pronounced the fatal
judgment. Martin Dumollard to the pain of
death, the execution to take place at Montlael;
Marianne Dumollard to twenty years' imprisonment
and hard labour.

That night, the condemned murderer slept
tranquilly: though for the preceding four his
rest had been broken by convulsive tossings to
and fro.

"Well, Dumollard, how goes it?" said his
advocate, entering his cell next morning.

"As one who expects to die," was the
answer.

"It remains then to make a good end; let
that be the first expiation of your crimes."

Neither to such exhortations, nor to the
earnest counsels of the excellent Abbé Beroud,
vicar of Bourg, who paid him many visits, did
the unhappy wretch give any heed.

"I shall do nothing with him," said the good
priest, mournfully. "The mind is too coarse and
brutified. It is not with him as with others,
where darkness and light are at least mingled
in the soul. Here," it is one profound
obscurity."

Nevertheless, he did not relax his efforts;
and, as Dumollard exercised his right of appeal
to the Court of Cassation, opportunity was not
wanting.

Dumollard's cell was shared by four or five
others, condemned to different terms of
imprisonment. These sometimes flattered him with
hopes of success in his appeal.

"In twenty days," he answered, "I shall
either lose my head, or be set at liberty; but I
would rather die than be sent to Cayenne or
even kept in prison."

This speech betrayed two misapprehensions
on the criminal's part. One, that a certain time
must elapse before the execution of a capital
sentence, whereas the law assigns none; the
other, that a favourable decision of the appeal
court ends all proceedings, and sets a prisoner
free. Whereas it merely remits the case to a
new jury.

On the twenty-seventh of February his
appeal was rejected; the report being
accompanied by that recommendation to mercy without
which no capital sentence in France is carried
into execution.

The report was then submitted to the
minister and to the Emperor, who wrote upon it,
"II n'y a lieu"—there is no room (i.e. for
pardon)—and the magistrates and officials of
Montlael received orders to execute the
sentence within twenty-four hours. The
executioner of Grenoble was directed to assist his
colleague of Lyons.

On Friday evening, the seventh of March, the
guillotine was taken from the vaults below the
Palais de Justice, placed upon an immense car,
and transported to Montlael: whither a large
detachment of Lancers had already proceeded, to
preserve order among the immense multitudes
that came flocking from every part of the
country. At four o'clock that same evening, the
criminal received intimation that he was to
die on the morrow. He turned deadly pale;
but soon recovered his habitual indifference, and
only replied that it was what he had expected. His
confessor was then introduced, and remained
with him half an hour. About to leave, he
suggested to the condemned man that the time
had arrived when, if ever, he should exchange
forgiveness and reconciliation with his wife,
offering at the same time to obtain permission
for his release from irons.

Dumollard assented, and the interview took
place immediately—the male prisoner remaining
calm and unmoved as ever—the woman deeply
agitated. After this, the two sat down to
partake of their last meal together: an abundant
supper, provided at the cost of the good priest,
who, though it was fast-day, permitted them,
"in the present conjuncture of circumstances,"
to eat what they pleased. Of this license,
Dumollard (again like Rush) availed himself to
the utmost limit of human appetite. Beef, pork,
cutlets, and especially puddings, disappeared
under his efforts with a rapidity that struck with
amazement the spectators of that gloomy feast.
He seemed to consider the time too precious to
be wasted in conversation; but, nevertheless,
found opportunity now and then to address a
word of comfort to his wife, whose sobs
interrupted the repast.

"Patience, patience; you are fretting about
me; but it is a waste of grief; you see I
don't care. As for you, you have to remain
twenty years in prison. Be careful of the little
money I shall leave you. Take some wine
now and then. But mind! On your liberation,