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 he 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 wretched rope would shortly do that they were getting ready behind him.  “Pardon.  One second yet, one little second.  Then, messieurs, then, we are agreed in that, are we?  This Michael, Michael Nikolaievitch was the the last of traitors.”

“The first,” said the heavy voice.

“It is the same thing, my dear monsieur.  A traitor, a wretched traitor,” continued Rouletabille.

“A poisoner,” replied the voice.

“A vulgar poisoner!  Is that not so?  But, tell me how — a vulgar poisoner who, under cover of Nihilism, worked for his own petty ends, worked for himself and betrayed you all!”

Now Rouletabille’s voice rose like a fanfare.  Someone said: 

“He did not deceive us long; our enemies themselves undertook his punishment.”

“It was I,” cried Rouletabille, radiant again.  “It was I who wound up that career.  I tell you that was managed right.  It was I who rid you of him.  Ah, I knew well enough, messieurs, in the bottom of my heart I knew that I could not be mistaken.  Two and two make four always, don’t they?  And Rouletabille is always Rouletabille.  Messieurs, it is all right, after all.”

But it was probable that it was also all wrong, for the gentleman of the Neva came up to him hat in hand and said: 

“Monsieur, you know now why the witnesses at your trial did not raise a fact against you that, on the contrary, was entirely in your favor.  Now it only remains for us to execute the sentence which is entirely justified on other grounds.”

“Ah, but — wait a little.  What the devil!  Now that I am sure I have not been mistaken and that I have been myself, Rouletabille, all the time I cling to life a little — oh, very much!”