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  “… I’ll only ask you to be present for a confrontation today; then you can rest.”

  Georges comes in. His eyes puffed up as if he’d cried all night. Julien gets up, goes toward him with his hands stretched out. Then Georges sees red, wants to throw himself on his brother-in-law, rarely controls himself and turns around, shouting:

  “Swine!”

  Julien is taken aback, then smiles.

  “I’ll give you the money back, Georges. Just let me get out of here. I’ll work to pay you back …”

  The judge and the lawyer exchange a look. Julien is taken away, as the lawyer cries:

  “I told you so, Judge. You know, there was one thing I just couldn’t digest—the sweater! And, anyhow, morphologically speaking, my client simply isn’t the type of man to …”

  “Obviously, obviously,” the judge says thoughtfully.

  Today, Julien’s appetite is excellent. His strength returns. When his lawyer comes to confer with him, he is happy.

  “So, you’ve made up your mind, all you fellows, that it wasn’t me? But who was it, finally?”

  “They’re looking … They don’t know yet …”

  Julien is surprised, but doesn’t want to show it. He is still being careful. There is no way of knowing if his defense counsel is really a friend.

  “You know, Counselor … I wanted to ask you if you could arrange for me to see my wife.”

  The lawyer frowns.

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “But, good Lord … It’s a question of tact, you know.”

  “Tact?” What’s he mean by that? But let it go.

  “You understand,” the lawyer says, “it’s a delicate situation.”

  “Yes,” Julien agrees. Must be very delicate. Not that he gives a good goddam. The only thing he cares about is tomorrow, or the day after, when he gets out of here … when he can breathe again.

  “You must tell me about your trouble with your brother-in-law,” the lawyer says, then blushes for some reason or other.

  “Oh! Georges’ll be paid. I’ll pay him all of it, down to the last centime.”

  “I’m afraid promises won’t suit him.”

  “Geneviève’ll twist him around her little finger.” The lawyer can’t figure him out.

  “But, look here, Courtois, you don’t seem to realize she’s talked. She came to see the judge.”

  “Ah. So. Yes,” Julien says. All right, he’ll play along.

  Luckily, the lawyer doesn’t pursue it; he gets up, relieved.

  “We can talk about it later. I’ll leave you alone with your good news.”

  “Thank you …”

  Stretched out on his bunk, he tries to understand. “She’s” talked. Who? Geneviève? Denise? The lady from the hotel, maybe, withdrawing her identification?

  Ah, who cares, as long as he gets out.

  He sleeps marvelously.

  They bring him in again, and there sit Georges and Jeanne. Well. She came, too. She is tight as a spring, but calm. Georges looks as if he’d been bit on the head with a poleax.

  “Julien,” Jeanne cries, very fast, “I told them everything. I admitted we were together that night.”

  He falls into a chair, there’s a fog in front of his eyes. Jeanne? She’s mad. Everyone’s embarrassed, except Jeanne. Georges says in a bleak, empty voice:

  “I had my home, Julien. You came into it. You destroyed it. I’ll never forgive you for it.”

  “That’s not our concern here, forgive me, Monsieur Jourlieu. Courtois, Madam Jourlieu has provided the alibi you refused, as a gentleman, to give us. Do you now admit having met with Madame Jourlieu, your mistress, first on Saturday night and then on Sunday night?”

  The words don’t make any sense in Julien’s head. He is like a drowning man, drunk with death on the raging sea, who suddenly bumps into a plank.

  He breathes deeply. He’s gotten the idea that the word “yes” will save him. He says it:

  “Yes.”

  Georges weeps, his face in his hands. Jeanne breathes again.

  Why is she doing it?

  Why is she destroying Georges’ happiness? I’m a swine, he thinks, but I’m a live swine!

  “Courtois,” the judge says, “would you tell us where you met your mistress on these two nights?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “At what place did you meet with Madame Jourlieu during these two nights?”

  He looks at Jeanne; she wants to speak, prevent the mistake he is about to make. What’ll he say? A terrible silence weighs on the four people in the room.

  “I decline to answer that question.”

  Jeanne takes another breath. The judge sighs.

  “Look, Courtois. You tried to preserve the peace, more or less, of your brother-in-law’s home. I can obviously understand your reasons for keeping quiet then, but, at this point in the hearing …”

  Georges stands up and interrupts, so violently that Julien shrinks back in his chair.

  “It isn’t possible! It isn’t possible! Jeanne! You’re not the woman to do a thing like this!”

  “Julien isn’t the man to commit a crime like this!” she answers.

  “But we never left you; how, when did you see him?” Georges pleads.

  Jeanne is lying to save him, coldly; indifferently, as if all her days as a well-bred wife she’d dreamt only of dragging herself through the mud.

  “You and Geneviève left Saturday night to look for Julien.”

  “Pardon me, Madame,” the judge says, “but the crime was committed on the night of Sunday to Monday …”

  “They left then, too, Monsieur, to see Julien’s secretary; my sister-in-law thought he was having an affair with her.”

  They take him away. His lawyer, who hasn’t opened his mouth, follows him out. He mumbles disgustedly:

  “It’s all pretty ugly, but …”

  The door of the hearing room opens and Georges’ voice is heard:

  “I’ll stop at nothing, you swine! D’you hear me? Nothing! Nothing! …”

  Someone pushes the door shut. The sound tortures Julien; the lawyer finishes his sentence:

  “… there you are, free and clear.”

  On his bunk, he tries to figure it out. He can’t possibly figure it out. Unless he admits his sister-in-law is in love with him. Jeanne? Why, he’s never even imagined … And when he needed help, she was the one who came. Not Geneviève. Not any of his mistresses. Only her.

  She’s not bad. He reconstructs his dream of freedom to make room for her. She’ll leave Georges …

  Leave the future for the future to take care of. For the present … as the lawyer says:

  “There you are, free and clear.”

  Chapter XX

  And then, it collapses. The whole thing. Georges wouldn’t let go. He put the screws on the maid, questions, questions, and she admitted that Madame hadn’t left the house.

  The defense lawyer broke the news. Unpleasantly.

  “So she finally had to admit she’d lied to save your life. She even admitted she wasn’t your mistress. Naturally, her husband didn’t believe her. So they’ll never be happy any more. Thanks to you.”

  Julien returns to his nightmare. They bring him in, they take him away, and doors start slamming again. The least little noise rakes his nerves now. The investigating judge is angry because he’d let himself doubt Julien’s guilt… The defense lawyer is angry because he can’t shine in his defense.

  They proceed to reconstruct the crime. The police are holding back a crowd; they jeer at him, spit at him as he walks out on the road between his guards. He staggers, sobs:

  “I swear I don’t even know how to get to Marly!”

  They put his raincoat on him. They put a gun in his hands.

  “Come on …”

  They push him in his car, they pull him out of it; his head is splitting. He has to take a few ste
ps.

  “Over here, over here … Shoot … Come on, shoot!”

  He obeys. Points the gun, pulls the trigger. Click.

  “Now, turn around and run … All right, stop! The impact of the bullet stops you there.”

  “But there isn’t any impact, the bullet just grazes him”

  They argue about this. Did he stop? Didn’t he stop? Somebody suggests that maybe the victim fired first. Improbable. What is he doing here, in this place, with his gun in his hand? Now, it seems, the husband jumps on him. One of the men has a make-believe fight with him. His hand grips a button on the raincoat—the button isn’t there, it’s the missing one, the whole thing is like a mad game—and the judge shouts at him:

  “What’re you waiting for? Shoot, Courtois, shoot!”

  He’s so dazed that he says “Bang Bang” out loud like a kid in a game. The crowd is outraged; it roars threats and curses. A guard slams the door of the police van. He screams, drops and doubles over and starts rolling on the ground. He’s hysterical, but the experts are still on the job.

  “It’s an epileptic fit!”

  “Shove something between his teeth, keep him from biting off his tongue!”

  A doctor punctures his arm, and Julien falls into a heavy, total sleep.

  They bring him in, they take him away. Doors frighten him now; he cringes going through them, puts out his hand to keep them from slamming.

  “Today, we touch on the last aspect of the case. I have a little surprise for you.”

  Another photograph. This one brings him to life a little. A cute young girl, dressed in Saint-Germain-des-Pres style. He looks her over delightedly, then remembers the routine. He asks, timidly:

  “I know her?”

  They’ve stolen his present, built up a past that isn’t his and are doing their best to abolish his future. Who is he to say whom he knows and whom he doesn’t? The judge nods, once, and says with deep satisfaction:

  “You killed her.”

  He waves off the lawyer’s feeble protest; it only takes one wave.

  “Later, Counselor. Courtois, do you recognize this young woman? I warn you, three witnesses have seen you with her.”

  He doesn’t dare say no. He’s a minority of one against a world that’s thrown him out of reality.

  “Bring in Madame Courtois.”

  Geneviève! He’s shaking with emotion. She comes in, with lowered eyes, on the arm of her brother, who blasts Julien with a look like a lightning bolt. They’re holding back the accused who tries to go to his wife. Geneviève begs him in a low voice:

  “Julien, please, don’t make it even harder for me.”

  She’s changed; no more dramatic gestures. Suffering has had a field day with her, made an old woman of her, he hardly knows her.

  “Ginou …”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’ve forgiven you, Julien, but you’ve made so much misery all around you …”

  “I’ve done nothing! Nothing, Ginou …”

  Georges helps his sister sit down. The judge has a glass of water brought to her and shows her the photo.

  “Yes, I recognize it,” Geneviève says, “It’s the same girl I saw getting in the car.”

  “What car?”

  “Yours, Courtois,” the judge explains.

  “Ginou,” he calls out, “think what you’re saying. I swear to you by all that’s sacred to us …”

  Geneviève says wistfully:

  “What’s sacred to you, Julien?” She turns to the judge.

  “I remember I noticed that the hem of her skirt was hanging.”

  Before they can hold him, he’s jumped, pulled the photo out of his wife’s hands. He looks. As a matter of fact, the hem of the skirt is hanging down. Proof is proof. Geneviève isn’t lying. But … is he? Proof of what? He stammers, uncertainly:

  “Who is it?”

  “Your partner for the week end, Courtois!”

  He sits down again, dazed, his fingers at his temples. Hardly hears them talking, talking. The lawyer wants to know if Geneviève is sure that Julien was in the car when the girl got in. Yes, she saw the back of his head, through the rear window.

  The testimony is over. The judge sees Geneviève out. He bows, thanking her. Julien has only one interest:

  “Easy on the door, please …”

  “Courtois!” the lawyer cries, standing up. “For the love of heaven stop this play acting and tell the truth!”

  Julien looks at him but doesn’t see him. His own wife says he’s guilty. Must be true. He doesn’t listen to the judge. What’s the point? Still, there is one thing … The girl he left with; now, she must know whether or not he was with her, mustn’t she?

  “The door!” he shouts. “The door’s open!”

  Hope soars in him. You can’t play around with the facts forever.

  “Judge, get this girl here. When she sees me, she can tell you it’s not me!”

  The lawyer’s mouth flies open. The judge taps lightly on his desk. Then taps harder and harder with the flat of his hand, banging away louder and louder Julien is panic-stricken. The judge stops.

  “Of course you couldn’t have known it before, but I just told you myself that you killed her.”

  “Killed her? She’s dead?”

  He isn’t really surprised.

  “Killed her indirectly, I’ll grant you that. I still don’t know when and how you made the acquaintance of Theresa Villois. In any case, you seduced her. You were cornered; you didn’t have a franc to your name; you owed money to your brother-in-law and to everyone else you’d swindled.… Still, you weren’t going to give up a week end with Theresa Villois. While you were at Marly, seeing the campers gave you the idea of killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  “Judge,” the defense lawyer suggests, “that’s rather a hasty conclusion.”

  “You find it so, Counselor? Hotel people have an unfortunate habit of listening in on guests’ conversations. Through the door. You remember, I’m sure, the conversation reported by Mathilde Fraignoux, the one between the lovers; your client was explaining the foreign exchange black market in great detail. He suspected that Carassi would have about two or three hundred thousand francs on him.”

  “Would that be enough money?”

  What were they talking about?

  “Oh, yes, Counselor. The unfortunate Theresa was pregnant by the good graces of your client. And he knew it. She told him at Marly. He’s broke; he’s afraid of the scandal; he loses his head. He must get her enough money for an abortion. There’s your motive, Counselor.”

  Unthinkingly, Julien is getting interested in this story that might be his own. He listens.

  “Unfortunately, this Theresa is a relatively bourgeois girl, as they say nowadays. She’s in love with Alfred Mouralin; she’s living with him until they can get married. She comes back from the week end and tells her lover the whole tragedy and the two poor youngsters decide to die in each other’s arms.”

  “On account of me,” Julien says; he’s agreeing, more than asking.

  “Precisely.”

  The judge shows him a wrist watch. Julien touches it, fearfully. It’s a real watch. He reads, on the back: For Pedro, from his Germaine.…

  “It belongs to one of your victims. You stole it, and gave it to Theresa Villois as payment for personal services rendered. Before she died, she threw it out of her window in disgust.”

  The judge sighs, affected by his own eloquence, and says for the lawyer’s benefit:

  “An old story, prostitution for reasons of poverty. But this time it’s helped us get the whole truth.”

  Julien catches himself wagging his head. The last door is closing on him.

  Slowly, his mind starts rearranging itself. Morally, the Bordgris killing couldn’t hold a candle to this holocaust of men, women and children. With Bordgris, he’s a murderer, but with the Marly affair, he’s a monster. Well, he has som
e pride.

  “I’m going to tell you the truth,” he begins.

  He’s surprised to hear himself speak. The clerk’s pencil is standing by. The lawyer opens his mouth and forgets to close it. The judge settles himself comfortably in his chair, with the air of a man prepared not to believe a word he hears.

  “I spent the week end in the elevator of the Uma-Standard Building.”

  The pencil that writes these words down stops by itself, shocked at what it has done. The lawyer closes his mouth, and the judge leans forward again.

  “You trying to kid us, Courtois?”

  This is too much. Julien is on his feet, screaming with his arms in the air:

  “I killed Bordgris! You understand? I killed him! That’s why I spent the week end in the elevator!”

  He’s running wild, piling up details that contradict each other.

  “Quiet! I order you to be quiet!”

  “No! Let me speak! I can’t stand it any more!”

  The attendants trade glances. They take him away.

  In his cell, he dictates a full confession, then waits.

  For a while, he feels at peace; the confession has relieved him so. Now he’s at least living his own life.

  Two days later he’s back in the hearing room, his head held high.

  “Courtois,” says the judge, “the fact that you have confessed to a crime, in order to cover the crime you have committed, is the result either of an imagination overstimulated by reading too many newspapers, or of a wish to be convicted of a murder less disgusting than the one of which you stand accused.”

  This sentence seems to please him no end; he strolls up and down with his thumbs in his vest pockets. Julien isn’t following him at all.

  “Nevertheless, we are prepared to listen to you, if you can provide us with the slightest concrete proof of the truth of what you say.”

  “There isn’t any, Judge. I got rid of it all, because I didn’t know I’d be accused of …”

  The judge won’t let him finish. He turns to the defense lawyer.

  “Convinced, Counselor?”

  “But,” Julien cries, “look here, I confessed!”

  The lawyer seems shaken.