Then, what awaited me was a night of easy, dreamless sleep.
This was the same hour, but with a difference; I was returning to a cell, and what awaited me was a night haunted by forebodings of the coming day.
And so I learned that familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer evenings may lead as well to prisons as to innocent, untroubled sleep.
IV
IT is always interesting, even in the prisoner’s dock, to hear oneself being talked about.
And certainly in the speeches of my lawyer and the prosecuting counsel a great deal was said about me; more, in fact, about me personally than about my crime.
Really there wasn’t any very great difference between the two speeches.
Counsel for the defense raised his arms to heaven and pleaded guilty, but with extenuating circumstances.
The Prosecutor made similar gestures; he agreed that I was guilty, but denied extenuating circumstances.
One thing about this phase of the trial was rather irksome.
Quite often, interested as I was in what they had to say, I was tempted to put in a word, myself. But my lawyer had advised me not to. “You won’t do your case any good by talking,” he had warned me.
In fact, there seemed to be a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings; I wasn’t to have any say and my fate was to be decided out of hand.
It was quite an effort at times for me to refrain from cutting them all short, and saying:
“But, damn it all, who’s on trial in this court, I’d like to know?
It’s a serious matter for a man, being accused of murder. And I’ve something really important to tell you.”
However, on second thoughts, I found I had nothing to say.
In any case, I must admit that hearing oneself talked about loses its interest very soon.
The Prosecutor’s speech, especially, began to bore me before he was halfway through it.
The only things that really caught my attention were occasional phrases, his gestures, and some elaborate tirades—but these were isolated patches.
What he was aiming at, I gathered, was to show that my crime was premeditated.
I remember his saying at one moment,
“I can prove this, gentlemen of the jury, to the hilt.
First, you have the facts of the crime; which are as clear as daylight. And then you have what I may call the night side of this case, the dark workings of a criminal mentality.”
He began by summing up the facts, from my mother’s death onward.
He stressed my heartlessness, my inability to state Mother’s age, my visit to the swimming pool where I met Marie, our matinee at the pictures where a Fernandel film was showing, and finally my return with Marie to my rooms.
I didn’t quite follow his remarks at first, as he kept on mentioning “the prisoner’s mistress,” whereas for me she was just “Marie.”
Then he came to the subject of Raymond.
It seemed to me that his way of treating the facts showed a certain shrewdness.
All he said sounded quite plausible.
I’d written the letter in collusion with Raymond so as to entice his mistress to his room and subject her to ill-treatment by a man “of more than dubious reputation.”
Then, on the beach, I’d provoked a brawl with Raymond’s enemies, in the course of which Raymond was wounded.
I’d asked him for his revolver and gone back by myself with the intention of using it.
Then I’d shot the Arab. After the first shot I waited.
Then, “to be certain of making a good job of it,” I fired four more shots deliberately, point-blank, and in cold blood, at my victim.
“That is my case,” he said. “I have described to you the series of events which led this man to kill the deceased, fully aware of what he was doing.
I emphasize this point. We are not concerned with an act of homicide committed on a sudden impulse which might serve as extenuation.
I ask you to note, gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner is an educated man.
You will have observed the way in which he answered my questions; he is intelligent and he knows the value of words.
And I repeat that it is quite impossible to assume that, when he committed the crime, he was unaware what he was doing.”
I noticed that he laid stress on my “intelligence.”
It puzzled me rather why what would count as a good point in an ordinary person should be used against an accused man as an overwhelming proof of his guilt.
While thinking this over, I missed what he said next, until I heard him exclaim indignantly:
“And has he uttered a word of regret for his most odious crime?
Not one word, gentlemen.
Not once in the course of these proceedings did this man show the least contrition.”
Turning toward the dock, he pointed a finger at me, and went on in the same strain.
I really couldn’t understand why he harped on this point so much. Of course, I had to own that he was right; I didn’t feel much regret for what I’d done.
Still, to my mind he overdid it, and I’d have liked to have a chance of explaining to him, in a quite friendly, almost affectionate way, that I have never been able really to regret anything in all my life.
I’ve always been far too much absorbed in the present moment, or the immediate future, to think back.
Of course, in the position into which I had been forced, there was no question of my speaking to anyone in that tone.