Chapter 17 - Page 2

homes of humble
workers, resting now as they played the balalaika at their
thresholds, with the day's labor over.

And suddenly from the ineffable peace of his last evening, while
the balalaika mourned and the man overhead tested the solidity of
his ring-bolt, a voice outside, the grave, deep voice of Annouchka,
sang for the little Frenchman:

"For whom weave we now the crown
Of lilac, rose and thyme?
When my hand falls lingering down
Who then will bring your crown
Of lilac, rose and thyme?

O that someone among you would hear,
And come, and my lonely hand
Would press, and shed the friendly tear -
For alone at the end I stand.

Who now will bring the crown
Of lilac, rose and thyme?"

Rouletabille listened to the voice dying away with the last sob of
the balalaika. "It is too sad," he said, rising. "Let us go,"
and he wavered a little.

They came to search him. All was ready above. They pushed him
gently towards the shed. When he was under the ring-bolt, near
the stool, they made him turn round and they read him something
in Russian, doubtless less for him than for those there who did
not understand French. Rouletabille had hard work to hold himself
erect.

The gentleman of the Neva said to him further:

"Monsieur, we now read you the final formula. It asks you to say
whether, before you die, you have anything you wish to add to what
we know concerning the sentence which has been passed upon you."

Rouletabille thought that his saliva, which at that moment he had
the greatest difficulty in swallowing, would not permit him to utter
a word. But disdain of such a weakness, when he recalled the
coolness of so many illustrious condemned people in their last
moments, brought him the last strength needed to maintain his
reputation.

"Why," said he, "this sentence is not wrongly drawn up. I blame
it only for being too short. Why has there been no mention of the
crime I committed in contriving the tragic death of poor Michael
Korsakoff?"

"Michael Korsakoff was a wretch," pronounced the vindictive voice
of the young man who had presided at the trial and who, at this
upreme moment, happened to be face to face with Rouletabille.
"Koupriane's police, by killing that man, ridded us of a traitor."

Rouletabille uttered a cry, a cry of joy, and while lie had some
reason for believing that at the point he had reached now of his
too-short career only misfortune could befall him, yet here
Providence, in his infinite grace, sent him before he died this
ineffable consolation: the certainty that he had not been mistaken.

"Pardon, pardon," he murmured, in an excess of joy which stifled
him almost as much as the