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.
Justine
also
was
a
girl
of
merit
and
possessed
qualities
which
promised
to
render
her
life
happy;
now
all
was
to
be
obliterated
in
an
ignominious
grave,
and
I
the
cause! A
thousand
times
rather
would
I
have
confessed
myself
guilty
of
the
crime
ascribed
to
Justine,
but
I
was
absent
when
it
was
committed,
and
such
a
declaration
would
have
been
considered
as
the
ravings
of
a madman
and
would
not
have
exculpated
her
who
suffered
through
me.
The
appearance
of
Justine
was
calm.
She
was
dressed
in
mourning,
and
her
countenance,
always
engaging,
was
rendered,
by
the
solemnity
of
her
feelings,
exquisitely
beautiful.
Yet
she
appeared
confident
in
innocence
and
did
not
tremble, although gazed
on
and
execrated
by
thousands,
for
all
the
kindness
which
her
beauty
might
otherwise
have
excited
was
obliterated
in
the
minds
of
the
spectators
by
the
imagination
of
the
enormity
she
was
supposed
to
have
committed.
She
was
tranquil,
yet
her
tranquillity
was
evidently constrained;
and
as
her
confusion
had
before
been
adduced
as
a
proof
of
her
guilt,
she
worked
up
her
mind
to
an
appearance
of
courage.
When
she
entered
the
court
she
threw
her
eyes
round
it
and
quickly
discovered
where
we
were
seated. A
tear
seemed
to
dim
her
eye
when
she
saw
us,
but
she
quickly
recovered
herself,
and
a
look
of
sorrowful
affection
seemed
to
attest
her
utter
guiltlessness.
The
trial
began,
and
after
the
advocate
against
her
had
stated
the
charge,
several
witnesses
were
called.
Several
strange
facts
combined against her,
which
might
have
staggered
anyone
who
had
not
such
proof
of
her
innocence
as
I had.
She
had been
out
the
whole
of
the
night
on
which
the
murder
had been committed
and
towards
morning
had been
perceived
by
a market-woman
not
far
from
the
spot
where
the
body
of
the
murdered
child
had been afterwards found.
The
woman
asked
her
what
she
did
there,
but
she
looked
very
strangely
and
only
returned
a
confused
and
unintelligible answer.
She
returned
to
the
house
about
eight
o'clock,
and
when
one
inquired
where
she
had
passed
the
night,
she
replied
that
she
had been
looking
for
the
child
and
demanded
earnestly
if
anything
had been
heard
concerning him.
When
shown
the
body,
she
fell
into
violent
hysterics
and
kept
her
bed
for
several
days.
The
picture
was
then
produced
which
the
servant
had found
in
her
pocket;
and
when
Elizabeth,
in
a
faltering
voice,
proved
that
it
was
the
same
which,
an
hour
before
the
child
had been missed,
she
had
placed
round
his
neck, a
murmur
of
horror
and
indignation
filled
the
court.
Justine
was
called
on
for
her
defence.
As
the
trial
had proceeded,
her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror,
and
misery
were
strongly
expressed. Sometimes
she
struggled
with
her
tears,
but
when
she
was
desired
to
plead,
she
collected
her
powers
and
spoke
in
an
audible
although variable voice. "God knows,"
she
said, "how entirely I
am
innocent.
But
I
do
not
pretend
that
my
protestations
should
acquit
me; I
rest
my
innocence
on
a
plain
and
simple
explanation
of
the
facts
which
have
been
adduced
against me,
and
I
hope
the
character
I
have
always
borne
will
incline my
judges
to
a
favourable
interpretation
where
any
circumstance
appears
doubtful
or
suspicious."
She
then
related that,
by
the
permission
of
Elizabeth,
she
had
passed
the
evening
of
the
night
on
which
the
murder
had been committed
at
the
house
of
an
aunt
at
Chene, a
village
situated
at
about
a league
from
Geneva.
On
her
return,
at
about
nine
o'clock,
she
met a
man
who
asked
her
if
she
had
seen
anything
of
the
child
who
was
lost.
She
was
alarmed
by
this
account
and
passed
several
hours
in
looking
for
him,
when
the
gates
of
Geneva
were
shut,
and
she
was
forced
to
remain
several
hours
of
the
night
in
a
barn
belonging
to
a cottage, being
unwilling
to
call
up
the
inhabitants,
to
whom
she
was
well
known.
Most
of
the
night
she
spent
here
watching;
towards
morning
she
believed
that
she
slept
for
a
few
minutes;
some
steps
disturbed her,
and
she
awoke.
It
was
dawn,
and
she
quitted
her
asylum,
that
she
might
again
endeavour
to
find my brother.
If
she
had gone
near
the
spot
where
his
body
lay,
it
was
without
her
knowledge.
That
she
had been bewildered
when
questioned
by
the
market-woman
was
not
surprising,
since
she
had
passed
a
sleepless
night
and
the
fate
of
poor
William
was
yet
uncertain. Concerning
the
picture
she
could
give
no
account. "I know,"
continued
the
unhappy victim, "how
heavily
and
fatally
this
one
circumstance
weighs
against me,
but
I
have
no
power
of
explaining
it;
and
when
I
have
expressed my
utter
ignorance, I
am
only
left
to
conjecture
concerning
the
probabilities
by
which
it
might
have
been
placed
in
my pocket.
But
here
also
I
am
checked. I
believe
that
I
have
no
enemy
on
earth,
and
none
surely
would
have
been
so
wicked
as
to
destroy
me
wantonly.
Did
the
murderer
place
it
there? I
know
of
no
opportunity
afforded
him
for
so
doing; or,
if
I had,
why
should
he
have
stolen
the
jewel,
to
part
with
it
again
so
soon? "I
commit
my
cause
to
the
justice
of
my judges,
yet
I
see
no
room
for
hope. I
beg
permission
to
have
a
few
witnesses
examined
concerning my character,
and
if
their
testimony
shall
not
overweigh my supposed guilt, I
must
be
condemned, although I
would
pledge
my
salvation
on
my innocence."
Several
witnesses
were
called
who
had known
her
for
many
years,
and
they
spoke
well
of
her;
but
fear
and
hatred
of
the
crime
of
which
they
supposed
her
guilty
rendered
them
timorous
and
unwilling
to
come
forward.
Elizabeth
saw
even
this
last
resource,
her
excellent
dispositions
and
irreproachable
conduct,
about
to
fail
the
accused, when, although
violently
agitated,
she
desired
permission
to
address
the
court. "I am," said she, "the
cousin
of
the
unhappy
child
who
was
murdered,
or
rather
his
sister,
for
I
was
educated
by
and
have
lived
with
his
parents
ever
since
and
even
long
before
his
birth.
It
may
therefore
be
judged
indecent
in
me
to
come
forward
on
this
occasion,
but
when
I
see
a
fellow
creature
about
to
perish
through
the
cowardice
of
her
pretended friends, I
wish
to
be
allowed
to
speak,
that
I
may
say
what
I
know
of
her
character. I
am
well
acquainted
with
the
accused. I
have
lived
in
the
same
house
with
her,
at
one
time
for
five
and
at
another
for
nearly
two
years.
During
all
that
period
she
appeared
to
me
the
most
amiable
and
benevolent
of
human
creatures.
She
nursed
Madame
Frankenstein, my aunt,
in
her
last
illness,
with
the
greatest
affection
and
care
and
afterwards
attended
her
own
mother
during
a
tedious
illness,
in
a
manner
that
excited
the
admiration
of
all
who
knew
her,
after
which
she
again
lived
in
my uncle's house,
where
she
was
beloved
by
all
the
family.
She
was
warmly attached
to
the
child
who
is
now
dead
and
acted
towards
him
like
a
most
affectionate mother.
For
my
own
part, I
do
not
hesitate
to
say
that,
notwithstanding
all
the
evidence produced against her, I
believe
and
rely
on
her
perfect innocence.
She
had
no
temptation
for
such
an
action;
as
to
the
bauble
on
which
the
chief
proof
rests,
if
she
had
earnestly
desired
it, I
should
have
willingly
given
it
to
her,
so
much
do
I
esteem
and
value
her." A
murmur
of
approbation
followed
Elizabeth's
simple
and
powerful appeal,
but
it
was
excited
by
her
generous
interference,
and
not
in
favour
of
poor
Justine,
on
whom
the
public
indignation
was
turned
with
renewed
violence,
charging
her
with
the
blackest
ingratitude.
She
herself
wept
as
Elizabeth
spoke,
but
she
did
not
answer. My
own
agitation
and
anguish
was
extreme
during
the
whole
trial. I
believed
in
her
innocence; I
knew
it.
Could
the
demon
who
had (I
did
not
for
a
minute
doubt)
murdered
my
brother
also
in
his
hellish
sport
have
betrayed
the
innocent
to
death
and
ignominy? I
could
not
sustain
the
horror
of
my situation,
and
when
I
perceived
that
the
popular
voice
and
the
countenances
of
the
judges
had
already
condemned my unhappy victim, I
rushed
out
of
the
court
in
agony.
The
tortures
of
the
accused
did
not
equal mine;
she
was
sustained
by
innocence,
but
the
fangs
of
remorse
tore my
bosom
and
would
not
forgo
their
hold. I
passed
a
night
of
unmingled wretchedness.
In
the
morning
I went
to
the
court; my
lips
and
throat
were
parched. I
dared
not
ask
the
fatal
question,
but
I
was
known,
and
the
officer
guessed
the
cause
of
my visit.
The
ballots
had been thrown;
they
were
all
black,
and
Justine
was
condemned. I cannot pretend
to
describe
what
I
then
felt. I had
before
experienced
sensations
of
horror,
and
I
have
endeavoured
to
bestow
upon
them
adequate
expressions,
but
words
cannot
convey
an
idea
of
the
heart-sickening
despair
that
I
then
endured.
The
person
to
whom
I
addressed
myself
added
that
Justine
had
already
confessed
her
guilt. "That evidence,"
he
observed, "was
hardly
required
in
so
glaring a case,
but
I
am
glad
of
it, and, indeed,
none
of
our
judges
like
to
condemn
a criminal
upon
circumstantial
evidence,
be
it
ever
so
decisive."
This
was
strange
and
unexpected intelligence;
what
could
it
mean? Had my
eyes
deceived
me?
And
was
I really
as
mad
as
the
whole
world
would
believe
me
to
be
if
I
disclosed
the
object
of
my suspicions? I hastened
to
return
home,
and
Elizabeth
eagerly
demanded
the
result. "My cousin," replied I, "it
is
decided
as
you
may
have
expected;
all
judges
had
rather
that
ten
innocent
should
suffer
than
that
one
guilty
should
escape.
But
she
has confessed."
This
was
a
dire
blow
to
poor
Elizabeth,
who
had relied
with
firmness
upon
Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she. "How
shall
I
ever
again
believe
in
human
goodness? Justine,
whom
I
loved
and
esteemed
as
my sister,
how
could
she
put
on
those
smiles
of
innocence
only
to
betray?
Her
mild
eyes
seemed
incapable
of
any
severity
or
guile,
and
yet
she
has committed a murder."
Soon
after
we
heard
that
the
poor
victim
had expressed a
desire
to
see
my cousin. My father
wished
her
not
to
go
but
said
that
he
left
it
to
her
own
judgment
and
feelings
to
decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I
will
go, although
she
is
guilty;
and
you, Victor,
shall
accompany
me; I cannot
go
alone."
The
idea
of
this
visit
was
torture
to
me,
yet
I
could
not
refuse.
We
entered
the
gloomy
prison
chamber
and
beheld
Justine
sitting
on
some
straw
at
the
farther
end;
her
hands
were
manacled,
and
her
head
rested
on
her
knees.
She
rose
on
seeing
us
enter,
and
when
we
were
left
alone
with
her,
she
threw
herself
at
the
feet
of
Elizabeth,
weeping
bitterly. My
cousin
wept also. "Oh, Justine!" said she. "Why
did
you
rob
me
of
my
last
consolation? I relied
on
your
innocence,
and
although I
was
then
very
wretched, I
was
not
so
miserable
as
I
am
now." "And
do
you
also
believe
that
I
am
so
very,
very
wicked?
Do
you
also
join
with
my
enemies
to
crush me,
to
condemn
me
as
a murderer?"
Her
voice
was
suffocated
with
sobs. "Rise, my
poor
girl," said Elizabeth; "why
do
you
kneel,
if
you
are
innocent? I
am
not
one
of
your
enemies, I
believed
you
guiltless,
notwithstanding
every
evidence,
until
I
heard
that
you
had yourself
declared
your
guilt.
That
report,
you
say,
is
false;
and
be
assured,
dear
Justine,
that
nothing
can
shake
my
confidence
in
you
for
a moment,
but
your
own
confession." "I
did
confess,
but
I confessed a lie. I confessed,
that
I
might
obtain
absolution;
but
now
that
falsehood
lies heavier
at
my
heart
than
all
my
other
sins.
The
God
of
heaven
forgive
me!
Ever
since
I
was
condemned, my
confessor
has besieged me;
he
threatened
and
menaced,
until
I
almost
began
to
think
that
I
was
the
monster
that
he
said I was.
He
threatened
excommunication
and
hell
fire
in
my
last
moments
if
I
continued
obdurate.
Dear
lady, I had
none
to
support me;
all
looked
on
me
as
a
wretch
doomed
to
ignominy
and
perdition.
What
could
I do?
In
an
evil
hour
I
subscribed
to
a lie;
and
now
only
am
I
truly
miserable."
She
paused, weeping,
and
then
continued, "I
thought
with
horror, my
sweet
lady,
that
you
should
believe
your
Justine,
whom
your
blessed
aunt
had
so
highly
honoured,
and
whom
you
loved,
was
a
creature
capable
of
a
crime
which
none
but
the
devil
himself
could
have
perpetrated.
Dear
William!
dearest
blessed child! I
soon
shall
see
you
again
in
heaven,
where
we
shall
all
be
happy;
and
that
consoles
me, going
as
I
am
to
suffer
ignominy
and
death." "Oh, Justine!
Forgive
me
for
having
for
one
moment
distrusted you.
Why
did
you
confess?
But
do
not
mourn,
dear
girl.
Do
not
fear. I
will
proclaim, I
will
prove
your
innocence. I
will
melt
the
stony
hearts
of
your
enemies
by
my
tears
and
prayers.
You
shall
not
die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister,
perish
on
the
scaffold! No! No! I
never
could
survive
so
horrible
a misfortune."
Justine
shook
her
head
mournfully. "I
do
not
fear
to
die,"
she
said; "that pang
is
past.
God
raises
my weakness
and
gives
me
courage
to
endure
the
worst. I
leave
a
sad
and
bitter world;
and
if
you
remember
me
and
think
of
me
as
of
one
unjustly condemned, I
am
resigned
to
the
fate
awaiting
me.
Learn
from
me,
dear
lady,
to
submit
in
patience
to
the
will
of
heaven!"
During
this
conversation
I had retired
to
a
corner
of
the
prison
room,
where
I
could
conceal
the
horrid
anguish
that
possessed me. Despair!
Who
dared
talk
of
that?
The
poor
victim,
who
on
the
morrow
was
to
pass
the
awful
boundary
between
life
and
death, felt not,
as
I did,
such
deep
and
bitter agony. I
gnashed
my teeth
and
ground
them
together,
uttering
a groan
that
came
from
my
inmost
soul.
Justine
started.
When
she
saw
who
it
was,
she
approached
me
and
said, "Dear sir,
you
are
very
kind
to
visit
me; you, I hope,
do
not
believe
that
I
am
guilty?" I
could
not
answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he
is
more
convinced
of
your
innocence
than
I was,
for
even
when
he
heard
that
you
had confessed,
he
did
not
credit
it." "I
truly
thank
him.
In
these
last
moments
I feel
the
sincerest
gratitude
towards
those
who
think
of
me
with
kindness.
How
sweet
is
the
affection
of
others
to
such
a
wretch
as
I am!
It
removes
more
than
half
my misfortune,
and
I feel
as
if
I
could
die
in
peace
now
that
my
innocence
is
acknowledged
by
you,
dear
lady,
and
your
cousin."
Thus
the
poor
sufferer
tried
to
comfort
others
and
herself.
She
indeed
gained
the
resignation
she
desired.
But
I,
the
true murderer, felt
the
never-dying worm
alive
in
my bosom,
which
allowed
of
no
hope
or
consolation.
Elizabeth
also
wept
and
was
unhappy,
but
hers
also
was
the
misery
of
innocence, which,
like
a
cloud
that
passes
over
the
fair
moon,
for
a
while
hides
but
cannot tarnish
its
brightness.
Anguish
and
despair
had
penetrated
into
the
core
of
my heart; I bore a
hell
within
me
which
nothing
could
extinguish.
We
stayed
several
hours
with
Justine,
and
it
was
with
great
difficulty
that
Elizabeth
could
tear
herself
away. "I wish," cried she, "that I
were
to
die
with
you; I cannot
live
in
this
world
of
misery."
Justine
assumed
an
air
of
cheerfulness,
while
she
with
difficulty
repressed
her
bitter tears.
She
embraced
Elizabeth
and
said
in
a voice
of
half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell,
sweet
lady,
dearest
Elizabeth, my beloved
and
only
friend;
may
heaven,
in
its
bounty,
bless
and
preserve you;
may
this
be
the
last
misfortune
that
you
will
ever
suffer! Live,
and
be
happy,
and
make
others
so."
And
on
the
morrow
Justine
died. Elizabeth's heart-rending
eloquence
failed
to
move
the
judges
from
their
settled
conviction
in
the
criminality
of
the
saintly sufferer. My
passionate
and
indignant
appeals
were
lost
upon
them.
And
when
I received
their
cold
answers
and
heard
the
harsh,
unfeeling
reasoning
of
these
men, my
purposed
avowal
died
away
on
my lips.
Thus
I
might
proclaim
myself
a madman,
but
not
revoke
the
sentence
passed
upon
my wretched victim.
She
perished
on
the
scaffold
as
a murderess!
From
the
tortures
of
my
own
heart, I
turned
to
contemplate
the
deep
and
voiceless
grief
of
my Elizabeth.
This
also
was
my doing!
And
my father's woe,
and
the
desolation
of
that
late
so
smiling
home
all
was
the
work
of
my thrice-accursed hands!
Ye
weep, unhappy ones,
but
these
are
not
your
last
tears!
Again
shall
you
raise
the
funeral wail,
and
the
sound
of
your
lamentations
shall
again
and
again
be
heard! Frankenstein,
your
son,
your
kinsman,
your
early, much-loved friend;
he
who
would
spend
each
vital
drop
of
blood
for
your
sakes,
who
has
no
thought
nor
sense
of
joy
except
as
it
is
mirrored
also
in
your
dear
countenances,
who
would
fill
the
air
with
blessings
and
spend
his
life
in
serving you—he
bids
you
weep,
to
shed
countless tears;
happy
beyond
his
hopes,
if
thus
inexorable
fate
be
satisfied,
and
if
the
destruction
pause
before
the
peace
of
the
grave
have
succeeded
to
your
sad
torments!
Thus
spoke
my
prophetic
soul, as,
torn
by
remorse, horror,
and
despair, I beheld
those
I
loved
spend
vain
sorrow
upon
the
graves
of
William
and
Justine,
the
first
hapless
victims
to
my
unhallowed
arts.