always a night of easy, dreamless sleep. And yet something had changed, since it was back to my cell that I went to wait for the next day … as if familiar paths traced in summer skies could lead as easily to prison as to the sleep of the innocent.
4
Even in the prisoner’s dock it’s always interesting to hear people talk about you. And during the summations by the prosecutor and my lawyer, there was a lot said about me, maybe more about me than about my crime. But were their two speeches so different after all? My lawyer raised his arms and pleaded guilty, but with an explanation. The prosecutor waved his hands and proclaimed my guilt, but without an explanation. One thing bothered me a little, though. Despite everything that was on my mind, I felt like intervening every now and then, but my lawyer kept telling me, “Just keep quiet—it won’t do your case any good.” In a way, they seemed to be arguing the case as if it had nothing to do with me. Everything was happening without my participation. My fate was being decided without anyone so much as asking my opinion. There were times when I felt like breaking in on all of them and saying, “Wait a minute! Who’s the accused here? Being the accused counts for something. And I have something to say!” But on second thought, I didn’t have anything to say. Besides, I have to admit that whatever interest you can get people to take in you doesn’tlast very long. For example, I got bored very quickly with the prosecutor’s speech. Only bits and pieces—a gesture or a long but isolated tirade—caught my attention or aroused my interest.
The gist of what he was saying, if I understood him correctly, was that my crime was premeditated. At least that is what he tried to show. As he himself said, “I will prove it to you, gentlemen, and I will prove it in two ways. First, in the blinding clarity of the facts, and second, in the dim light cast by the mind of this criminal soul.” He reminded the court of my insensitivity; of my ignorance when asked Maman’s age; of my swim the next day—with a woman; of the Fernandel movie; and finally of my taking Marie home with me. It took me a few minutes to understand the last part because he kept saying “his mistress” and to me she was Marie. Then he came to the business with Raymond. I thought his way of viewing the events had a certain consistency. What he was saying was plausible. I had agreed with Raymond to write the letter in order to lure his mistress and submit her to mistreatment by a man “of doubtful morality.” I had provoked Raymond’s adversaries at the beach. Raymond had been wounded. I had asked him to give me his gun. I had gone back alone intending to use it. I had shot the Arab as I planned. I had waited. And to make sure I had done the job right, I fired four more shots, calmly, point-blank—thoughtfully, as it were.
“And there you have it, gentlemen,” said the prosecutor.“I have retraced for you the course of events which led this man to kill with full knowledge of his actions. I stress this point,” he said, “for this is no ordinary murder, no thoughtless act for which you might find mitigating circumstances. This man, gentlemen, this man is intelligent. You heard him, didn’t you? He knows how to answer. He knows the value of words. And no one can say that he acted without realizing what he was doing.”
I was listening, and I could hear that I was being judged intelligent. But I couldn’t quite understand how an ordinary man’s good qualities could become crushing accusations against a guilty man. At least that was what struck me, and I stopped listening to the prosecutor until I heard him say, “Has he so much as expressed any remorse? Never, gentlemen. Not once during the preliminary hearings did this man show emotion over his heinous offense.” At that point, he turned in my direction, pointed his finger at me, and went on attacking me without my ever really understanding
4
Even in the prisoner’s dock it’s always interesting to hear people talk about you. And during the summations by the prosecutor and my lawyer, there was a lot said about me, maybe more about me than about my crime. But were their two speeches so different after all? My lawyer raised his arms and pleaded guilty, but with an explanation. The prosecutor waved his hands and proclaimed my guilt, but without an explanation. One thing bothered me a little, though. Despite everything that was on my mind, I felt like intervening every now and then, but my lawyer kept telling me, “Just keep quiet—it won’t do your case any good.” In a way, they seemed to be arguing the case as if it had nothing to do with me. Everything was happening without my participation. My fate was being decided without anyone so much as asking my opinion. There were times when I felt like breaking in on all of them and saying, “Wait a minute! Who’s the accused here? Being the accused counts for something. And I have something to say!” But on second thought, I didn’t have anything to say. Besides, I have to admit that whatever interest you can get people to take in you doesn’tlast very long. For example, I got bored very quickly with the prosecutor’s speech. Only bits and pieces—a gesture or a long but isolated tirade—caught my attention or aroused my interest.
The gist of what he was saying, if I understood him correctly, was that my crime was premeditated. At least that is what he tried to show. As he himself said, “I will prove it to you, gentlemen, and I will prove it in two ways. First, in the blinding clarity of the facts, and second, in the dim light cast by the mind of this criminal soul.” He reminded the court of my insensitivity; of my ignorance when asked Maman’s age; of my swim the next day—with a woman; of the Fernandel movie; and finally of my taking Marie home with me. It took me a few minutes to understand the last part because he kept saying “his mistress” and to me she was Marie. Then he came to the business with Raymond. I thought his way of viewing the events had a certain consistency. What he was saying was plausible. I had agreed with Raymond to write the letter in order to lure his mistress and submit her to mistreatment by a man “of doubtful morality.” I had provoked Raymond’s adversaries at the beach. Raymond had been wounded. I had asked him to give me his gun. I had gone back alone intending to use it. I had shot the Arab as I planned. I had waited. And to make sure I had done the job right, I fired four more shots, calmly, point-blank—thoughtfully, as it were.
“And there you have it, gentlemen,” said the prosecutor.“I have retraced for you the course of events which led this man to kill with full knowledge of his actions. I stress this point,” he said, “for this is no ordinary murder, no thoughtless act for which you might find mitigating circumstances. This man, gentlemen, this man is intelligent. You heard him, didn’t you? He knows how to answer. He knows the value of words. And no one can say that he acted without realizing what he was doing.”
I was listening, and I could hear that I was being judged intelligent. But I couldn’t quite understand how an ordinary man’s good qualities could become crushing accusations against a guilty man. At least that was what struck me, and I stopped listening to the prosecutor until I heard him say, “Has he so much as expressed any remorse? Never, gentlemen. Not once during the preliminary hearings did this man show emotion over his heinous offense.” At that point, he turned in my direction, pointed his finger at me, and went on attacking me without my ever really understanding
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