When the bell rang again and I stepped back into the dock, the silence of the courtroom closed in round me, and with the silence came a queer sensation when I noticed that, for the. first time, the young journalist kept his eyes averted.
I didn’t look in Marie’s direction.
In fact, I had no time to look, as the presiding judge had already started pronouncing a rigmarole to the effect that “in the name of the French people” I was to be decapitated in some public place.
It seemed to me then that I could interpret the look on the faces of those present; it was one of almost respectful sympathy.
The policemen, too, handled me very gently.
The lawyer placed his hand on my wrist.
I had stopped thinking altogether.
I heard the Judge’s voice asking if I had anything more to say.
After thinking for a moment, I answered,
“No.”
Then the policemen led me out.
V
I HAVE just refused, for the third time, to see the prison chaplain.
I have nothing to say to him, don’t feel like talking—and shall be seeing him quite soon enough, anyway.
The only thing that interests me now is the problem of circumventing the machine, learning if the inevitable admits a loophole.
They have moved me to another cell.
In this one, lying on my back, I can see the sky, and there is nothing else to see.
All my time is spent in watching the slowly changing colors of the sky, as day moves on to night.
I put my hands behind my head, gaze up, and wait.
This problem of a loophole obsesses me; I am always wondering if there have been cases of condemned prisoners’ escaping from the implacable machinery of justice at the last moment, breaking through the police cordon, vanishing in the nick of time before the guillotine falls.
Often and often I blame myself for not having given more attention to accounts of public executions.
One should always take an interest in such matters.
There’s never any knowing what one may come to.
Like everyone else I’d read descriptions of executions in the papers.
But technical books dealing with this subject must certainly exist; only I’d never felt sufficiently interested to look them up.
And in these books I might have found escape stories.
Surely they’d have told me that in one case, anyhow, the wheels had stopped; that once, if only once, in that inexorable march of events, chance or luck had played a happy part.
Just once!
In a way I think that single instance would have satisfied me.
My emotion would have done the rest.
The papers often talk of “a debt owed to society”—a debt which, according to them, must be paid by the offender.
But talk of that sort doesn’t touch the imagination.
No, the one thing that counted for me was the possibility of making a dash for it and defeating their bloodthirsty rite; of a mad stampede to freedom that would anyhow give me a moment’s hope, the gambler’s last throw.
Naturally, all that “hope” could come to was to be knocked down at the corner of a street or picked off by a bullet in my back.
But, all things considered, even this luxury was forbidden me; I was caught in the rattrap irrevocably.
Try as I might, I couldn’t stomach this brutal certitude.
For really, when one came to think of it, there was a disproportion between the judgment on which it was based and the unalterable sequence of events starting from the moment when that judgment was delivered.
The fact that the verdict was read out at eight P.M. rather than at five, the fact that it might have been quite different, that it was given by men who change their underclothes, and was credited to so vague an entity as the “French people”—for that matter, why not to the Chinese or the German people?—all these facts seemed to deprive the court’s decision of much of its gravity.
Yet I could but recognize that, from the moment the verdict was given, its effects became as cogent, as tangible, as, for example, this wall against which I was lying, pressing my back to it.
When such thoughts crossed my mind, I remembered a story Mother used to tell me about my father.
I never set eyes on him.
Perhaps the only things I really knew about him were what Mother had told me. One of these was that he’d gone to see a murderer executed.
The mere thought of it turned his stomach.
But he’d seen it through and, on coming home, was violently sick.
At the time, I found my father’s conduct rather disgusting.
But now I understood; it was so natural.
How had I failed to recognize that nothing was more important than an execution; that, viewed from one angle, it’s the only thing that can genuinely interest a man?
And I decided that, if ever I got out of jail, I’d attend every execution that took place.
I was unwise, no doubt, even to consider this possibility. For, the moment I’d pictured myself in freedom, standing behind a double rank of policemen—on the right side of the line, so to speak—the mere thought of being an onlooker who comes to see the show, and can go home and vomit afterward, flooded my mind with a wild, absurd exultation.
It was a stupid thing to let my imagination run away with me like that; a moment later I had a shivering fit and had to wrap myself closely in my blanket.