And my son who died at Verdun!..." The prisoner, as though divining this public indignation, began to consider her death very near losing, little by little, that love of existence which had made her burst forth into lies and delirious protests.

In vain the _maitre_ held out hopes of pardon.
"It is useless: I must die....

I ought to be shot....

I have done so much mischief....

It horrifies even me to remember all the crimes named in that sentence....