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 explana
tion. 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 what
ever interest you can get people to take in you doesn't
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last 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-caugh t my atten
tion 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 insensi
tivity; of my ignorance when asked Marnan1s age; of my
swim the next day-with a woman; of the Fernandel
movie; and finally of my taking Marie horne with me. It
took me a few minutes to understand the last part be
cause he kept saying "his mistress" and to me she was
Marie. Then he carne to the business with Raymond . I
though t 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 ad
versaries 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 prosecu-
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tor. "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 re
morse? Never, gentlemen. Not once during the pre
liminary hearings did this man show emotion over his
heinous offense." At that point, he turned in my direc
tion, pointed his finger at me, and went on attacking me
without my ever really understanding why. Of course, I
couldn't help admitting that he was right. I didn't feel
much remorse for what I'd done. But I was surprised by
how relentless he was. I would have liked to have tried
explaining to him cordially, almost affectionately, that I
had never been able to truly feel remorse for anything.
My mind was always on what was coming next, today
or tomorrow. But naturally, given the position I'd been
put in, I couldn't talk to anyone in that way. I didn't
have the right to show any feeling or goodwill. And I
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tried to listen again, because the prosecutor started talk
ing about my soul.
He said that he had peered into it and that he had
found nothing, gentlemen of the jury. He said the truth
was that I didn't have a soul and that nothing human ,
not one of the moral principles that govern men's hearts,
was within my reach . "Of course," he added, "we cannot
blame him for this. We cannot complain that he lacks
what it was not in his power to acquire. But here in this
court the wholly negative virtue of tolerance must give
way to the sterner but loftier virtue of justice. Esp
cially when the emptiness of a man's heart becomes, as
we find it has in this man, an abyss threatening to
swallow up society." It was then that he talked about
my attitude toward Maman . He repeated what he had
said earlier in the proceedings. But it went on much
longer than when he was talking about my crime-so
long, in fact, that finally all I was aware of was how hot a
morning it was. At least until the prosecutor stopped and
after a short silence continued in a very low voice filled
with conviction : "Tomorrow, gentlemen, this same court
is to sit in judgment of the most monstrous of crimes : the
murder of a father." According to him, the imagination re
coiled before such an odious offense. He went so far
as to hope that human justice would mete out punish
ment unBinchingly. But he wasn't afraid to say i t : my
callousness inspired in him a horror nearly greater than
that which he felt at the crime of parricide. And also
according to him, a man who is morally guilty of killing
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his mother severs himself from society in the same way
as the man who raises a murderous hand against the
father who begat him. In any case, the one man paved
the way for the deeds of the other, in a sense fore
shadowed and even legitimized them. "I am convinced,
gentlemen," he added, raising his voice, "that you will
not think it too bold of me if I suggest to you that the
man who is seated in the dock is also guilty of the murder
to be tried in this court tomorrow. He must be punished
accordingly." Here the prosecutor wiped his face, which
was glistening with sweat. He concluded by saying that
his duty was a painful one but that he would carry it
out resolutely. He stated that I had no place in a society
whose most fundamental rules I ignored and that I could
not appeal to the same human heart whose elementary
response I knew nothing of. "I ask you for this man's
head," he said, "and I do so with a heart at ease. For
if in the course of what has been a long career I have
had occasion to call for the death penalty, never as
strongly as today have I felt this painful duty made
easier, lighter, clearer by the certain knowledge of a
sacred imperative and by the horror I feel when I look
into a man's face and all I see is a monster."
When the prosecutor returned to his seat, there was a
rather long silence. My head was spinning with heat and
astonishment. The presiding judge cleared his throat and
in a very low voice asked me if I had anything to add. I
stood up, and since I did wish to speak, I said, almost at
random, in fact, that I never intended to kill the Arab.
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The judge replied by saying that at least that was an
assertion, that until then he hadn't quite grasped the
nature of my defense, and that before hearing from my
lawyer he would be happy to have me state precisely the
motives for my act. Fumbling a little with my words and
realizing how ridiculous I sounded, I blurted out that
it was because of the sun. People laughed. My lawyer
threw up his hands, and immediately after that he was
given the floor. But he stated that it was late and that he
would need several hours. He requested that the trial be
reconvened in the afternoon. The court granted his
motion.
That afternoon the big fans were still churning
the thick air in the courtroom and the jurors' brightly
colored fans were all moving in unison . It seemed to me
as if my lawyer's summation would never end. At one
point, though, I listened, because he was saying, "It is
true I killed a man ." He went on like that, saying "I"
whenever he was speaking about me. I was completely
taken aback. I leaned over to one of the guards and
asked him why he was doing that. He told me to keep
quiet, and a few seconds later he added, "All lawyers
do it." I thought it was a way to exclude me even further
from the case, reduce me to nothing, and, in a sense, sub
stitute himself for me. But I think I was already very
far removed from that courtroom. Besides, my lawyer
seemed ridiculous to me. He rushed through a plea of
provocation, and then he too talked about my soul. But
to me he seemed to be a lot less talented than the
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prosecutor. "1, too," he said, "have peered into this man's
soul, but unlike the esteemed representative of the
government prosecutor's office, I did see something there,
and I can assure you that I read it like an open book."
What he read was that I was an honest man, a steadily
employed, tireless worker, loyal to the firm that employed
him, well liked, and sympathetic to the misfortunes of
others. To him, I was a model son who had supported
his mother as long as he could. In the end I had hoped
that a horne for the aged would give the old woman the
comfort that with my limited means I could not provide
for her. "Gentlemen," he added, "I am amazed that so
much has been made of this horne. For after all, if it
were necessary to prove the usefulness and importance
of such institutions, all one would have to say is that
the state itself which subsidizes them." The onlyit is
thing is, he didn't say anything about the funeral, and I
thought that that was a glaring omission in his sum
mation. But all the long speeches, all the interminable
days and hours that people had spent talking about my
soul, had left me with the impression of a colorless swirl
ing river that was making me dizzy.
In the end, all I remember is that while my lawyer
went on talking, I could hear through the expanse of
chambers and courtrooms an ice cream vendor blowing
his tin trumpet out in the street. I was assailed by
memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one
in which I'd found the simplest and most lasting joys :
the smells of summer, the part of town I loved, a certain
evening sky, Marie's dresses and the way she laughed.
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The utter pointlessness of whatever I was doing there
seized me by the throat, and all I wanted was to get it
over with and get back to my cell and sleep . I barely
even heard when my lawyer, wrapping up, exclaimed
that the jury surely would not send an honest, hard
working man to his death because he had lost control of
himself for one moment, and then he asked them to find
extenuating circumstances for a crime for which I was
already suffering the most agonizing of punishments
eternal remorse. Court was adjourned and my lawyer
sat back down . He looked exhausted. But his colleagues
came over to shake his hand. I heard : "That was
brilliant!" One of them even appealed to me as a wit
ness. "Wasn't it?" he said. I agreed, but my congratula
tions weren't sincere, because I was too tired.
Meanwhile, the sun was getting low outside and it
wasn't as hot anymore. From what street noises I could
hear, I sensed the sweetness of evening coming on.
There we all were, waiting. And what we were all wait
ing for really concerned only me. I looked around the
room again. Everything was the same as it had been the
first day. My eyes met those of the little robot woman
and the reporter in the gray jacket. That reminded me
that I hadn't tried to catch Marie's eye once during the
whole trial. I hadn't forgotten about her; I'd just had too
much to do. I saw her sitting between Celeste and Ray
mond. She made a little gesture as if to say "At last."
There was a worried little smile on her face. But my
heart felt nothing, and I couldn't even return her smile.
The judges came back in. Very quickly a series of
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questions was read to the jury. I heard "guilty of
murder" . . . "premeditated" . . . "extenuating cir
cumstances." The jurors filed out, and I was taken to
the little room where I had waited before. My lawyer
joined me. He was very talkative and spoke to me more
confidently and cordially than he ever had before. He
thought that everything would go well and that I would
get off with a few years in prison or at hard labor. I
asked him whether he thought there was any chance of
overturning the verdict if it was unfavorable. He said
no. His tactic had been not to file any motions so as not
to antagonize the jury. He explained to me that verdicts
weren't set aside just like that, for nothing. That seemed
obvious and I accepted his logic. Looking at it objectively,
it made perfect sense. Otherwise there would be too
much pointless paperwork. "Anyway," he said, "we can
always appeal. But I'm convinced that the outcome will
be favorable."
We waited a long time-almost three-quarters of an
hour, I think. Then a bell rang. My lawyer left me, say
ing, "The foreman of the jury is going to announce the
verdict. You'll only be brought in for the passing of
sentence." Doors slammed. People were running on stairs
somewhere, but I couldn't tell if they were nearby or far
away. Then I heard a muffied voice reading something in
the courtroom. When the bell rang again, when the
door to the dock opened, what rose to meet me was the
silence in the courtroom, silence and the strange feeling
I had when I noticed that the young reporter had turned
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his eyes away. I didn't look in Marie's direction. I didn't
have time to, because the presiding judge told me in
bizarre language that I was to have my head cut off in a
public square in the name of the French people. Then
it seemed to me that I suddenly knew what was on
everybody's face. It was a look of consideration, I'm sure.
The policemen were very gentle with me. The lawyer
put his hand on my wrist. I wasn't thinking about any
thing anymore. But the presiding judge asked me if I
had anything to say. I thought about it. I said, "No."
That's when they took me away.
