Frankenstein's Bride (30 page)

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined
the wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm
Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and her I named my cousin.

“She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that
made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered—”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! How can that be? Who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well
try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of wonder, “but to us the discovery we have made completes our
misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence.
Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable
of so frightful, so appalling a crime?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely,
Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behavior
has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be
tried today, and you will then hear all.”

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and
confined to her bed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had
worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation
of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went
to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed
the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.
Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavored to welcome me
cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster,
had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered
so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she
will be acquitted.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of
this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict
her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any
one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living
monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing
the beauty of her childish years. There was the same candor, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression more full
of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills
me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted
of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only
lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is
condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after
the sad death of my little William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance
of her acquittal.”

“How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossi-ble:
and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and
the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.”

C H A PT E R 8

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 tranquility
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 defense. 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 favorable 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 endeavor 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 favor 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 endeavored 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 honored, 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.”