Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  “What have you got to say?” the warden asked.

  “In the first place, Carbonieri had nothing to do with it. The raft was designed to carry only one man: me. I only asked him to help me lift the matting off the grave. Carbonieri is not guilty of theft or misappropriating material belonging to the State, or of complicity in an escape since there was no escape. Bourset was a poor bastard who was operating under pain of death. As for Narric and Quenier, I hardly know them. They had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s not what my informant told me,” the guard said.

  “Your informant was Bébert Celier. He might have been trying to get even with someone by implicating him falsely. Besides, how can you trust a stoolie?”

  “All right,” the warden said. “You are officially accused of theft and misappropriation of material belonging to the State, of defiling a grave, and attempting to escape. Sign here.”

  “I’ll sign only when you’ve added my statement about Carbonieri, Bourset, Narric and Quenier.”

  “All right. Write it up.”

  I signed. I can’t really tell you what happened after that. I was out of my mind. I barely ate, I couldn’t move, I smoked constantly, one cigarette after another. Luckily Dega kept me well supplied with tobacco. Every day I had a morning walk in the sun in the yard of the maximum-security compound. The warden came to see me. The funny thing was that, although he would have been severely censured if the escape had succeeded, he wasn’t angry with me at all.

  Smiling all the while, he told me that his wife had said it was perfectly normal for a man to try to escape unless he had gone to pot. With great cleverness he tried to get me to admit Carbonieri’s complicity. I think I convinced him. I explained how it was practically impossible for Carbonieri to refuse to help me when I needed to remove the matting.

  Bourset disclosed my threatening letter and the design I’d made for the raft. In that matter the warden was completely convinced. I asked him what he thought the theft of State property would get me. “Not more than eighteen months.”

  So, gradually, I climbed out of the pit. A note came from Chatal, the orderly, informing me that Bébert Celier was in a special room in the hospital with a rare disease: an abscess of the liver. I was sure it was something cooked up between the doctor and the Administration to protect him from reprisals.

  I was left alone in my cell and never searched, so I took advantage of this to get hold of a knife. I told Narric and Quenier to ask for a meeting of the shop guard, Bébert Celier, the carpenter and me. After the meeting the warden would decide whether they deserved imprisonment, punishment, or freedom.

  During the morning walk Narric told me that the warden had agreed to the meeting. It was to take place the next day at ten. One of the head guards would act as examining judge. I spent the night trying to talk myself out of killing Bébert Celier, but I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair for him to be disinterned to Grande Terre for his service to the Administration and make a cavale from there as if in reward for having prevented mine. They’d probably condemn me to death. I didn’t give a good goddam; I was that desperate. Four months of hope, of joy, the fear of being caught, ingenuity, then, on the brink of success, to have the whole thing collapse because of one stinking rat! Come what might, I’d kill Celier.

  The only way to escape the death penalty would be to get him to pull his knife first. If I had mine out, he’d be sure to pull his. I would do it a little before or right after the meeting. During the meeting itself, it would be impossible because I’d risk being shot by a guard. I would have to count on the guards’ chronic negligence.

  I spent the whole night fighting this idea. I lost. After all, there were some things that could not be forgiven. I knew that nobody had the right to write his own laws, but that was for people of another social class. How could you not think of punishing a low-down bastard like him? I’d never harmed that bigmouth; he didn’t even know me. He was condemning me to X number of years in solitary, and I’d never done a thing to him. He was burying me so he could live again. No, no, no! I couldn’t let him profit from this. I felt lost. Tit for tat, let him feel lost, too, more than me even. But what if they condemned me to death? It would be damn stupid to die for a punk like him. I finally managed to promise myself one thing: if I couldn’t get him to pull his knife, I wouldn’t kill him.

  I didn’t sleep that entire night. I smoked a whole package of gray tobacco. When coffee arrived at six in the morning, I had two cigarettes left. I was so tense that, even though it was forbidden, I said to the coffee boy, “Could you give me some cigarettes or a little tobacco? I’m almost out, Monsieur Antartaglia.”

  The guard said, “Sure, give him some. I really feel sorry for you, Papillon. I’m a Corsican. I like people; I hate this kind of treachery.”

  By a quarter to ten I was in the yard waiting to enter the hall. Narric, Quenier, Bourset and Carbonieri were there. The guard in charge was Antartaglia, the coffee guy. He talked to Carbonieri in Corsican, and I gathered he was telling him that he stood a good chance of getting three years in solitary. At that point the door to the yard opened and in came the Arab of the palm tree, the Arab who guarded the door to the shop and Bébert Celier. When Celier saw me, he drew back, but the guard said, “Come on, stand over there on the right. Antartaglia, see they don’t get too close.” We were less than two yards apart.

  Antartaglia said, “No talking between groups.”

  Carbonieri continued to talk to his fellow Corsican, who was watching both groups. The guard bent down to tie his shoelace; I made Matthieu a sign to step forward a little. He understood, looked at Celier and spat in his direction. The guard stood up and Carbonieri went on talking to him, commanding his attention so I could take a step forward without his noticing it. My knife slid down into my hand. Only Celier could see it. His knife was already open in his pocket and, faster than I’d anticipated, he swung at me and nicked me in the muscle of my right arm. But since I was left-handed, I was able to plunge my knife into his chest right up to the handle. There was an animal cry of “A-a-ah!” and he fell in a heap.

  Antartaglia pulled out his revolver. “Get back, kid, get back. Don’t hit him when he’s down or I’ll have to shoot you, and I don’t want to do that.”

  Carbonieri went over to Celier and prodded his head with his foot. He said two words in Corsican. I understood them: “He’s dead.”

  The guard said, “Give me your knife, kid.”

  I gave it to him. He put his revolver back in its holster, went over to the door and knocked. A guard opened it and he said, “Tell the stretcher-bearers to come pick up a dead man.”

  “Who’s dead?” the guard asked.

  “Bébert Celier.”

  “Ah! I thought it was Papillon.”

  We were put back in our cells. Meeting suspended. Before stepping into the hall, Carbonieri said to me, “Poor Papi, you’re in for it this time.”

  “Yes, but I’m alive and he isn’t.”

  The guard came back alone, opened the door and said in a husky voice, “Knock on the door. Tell ’em you’re wounded. He attacked first. I saw him.” He left.

  These Corsican guards were amazing—either all good or all bad. I knocked on the door and shouted, “I’m wounded! I want to go to the hospital!”

  The guard returned with the head of the disciplinary section. “What’s the matter with you? Why all the racket?”

  “Chief, I’m wounded.”

  “What? You’re wounded? I didn’t think he touched you.”

  “He got the muscle in my right arm.” “Open the door.”

  The door opened and I went out. The arm muscle was badly cut.

  “Put him in handcuffs and take him to the hospital. But don’t on any account leave him there. Bring him back here the minute he’s patched up.”

  When he went out, there were more than ten guards standing around the warden. The shop guard said to me, “You murderer!”

  Before I could say anything, th
e head guard answered for me. “Shut up, Brouet. He attacked Papillon first.”

  “I saw it too. I was a witness,” Antartaglia said. “And you might as well learn now, Monsieur Bruet, Corsicans don’t lie.”

  Once I was in the hospital, Chatal called for the doctor. With no anesthetic—either general or local—he sewed me up and attached eight clamps. When he was finished, he said, “I couldn’t give you a local anesthetic. I’m all out.” Then he added, “That was not a good thing you did.”

  “Well, you know, he couldn’t have lived long with that abscess on his liver.”

  He started; he hadn’t expected that one.

  The interrogation was resumed. Bourset’s participation in the plot was dismissed. It was agreed that he’d been terrorized. For lack of proof they dismissed the case of Narric and Quenier too. That left Carbonieri and me. In Carbonieri’s case they dismissed the charge of theft and misappropriation, etc. There remained complicity in an attempt to escape. That wouldn’t get him more than six months. In my case things got complicated. In spite of all the testimony on my behalf, the examiner would not accept legitimate self-defense. Dega had seen the full dossier and told me that, in spite of the examiner’s vindictiveness, I couldn’t be given the death penalty because I had been wounded. What the prosecution used to get me was the declaration of the two Arabs that I had been the first to pull my knife.

  The interrogation ended. I waited to be sent to Saint-Laurent to appear before the council of war. I smoked. I hardly walked at all. At no time did the warden or the guards—except the shop guard and the examiner—show me the least hostility. Also I was allowed to have all the tobacco I wanted. I was to leave Friday.

  On Wednesday morning at ten I had been in the yard almost two hours when the warden called me and said, “Come with me.” We took the path to his house. As we walked, he said, “My wife wants to see you before you leave. I didn’t want to upset her by having you brought by an armed guard. I hope you’ll behave yourself.”

  We reached his house. “Juliette, I’ve brought your protégé, as I promised. Remember I have to take him back before noon. You have almost an hour.” He discreetly went his way.

  Juliette came up to me, put her hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. Tears made her black eyes sparkle all the more, but luckily she didn’t cry.

  “My friend, you really are crazy. If only you’d told me you wanted to leave, I could have helped you. I’ve asked my husband to do everything possible for you, but he said it wasn’t up to him. I wanted you to come so I could see how you are. I congratulate you on your courage. You’re in better shape than I could have hoped. Besides, I wanted to tell you I intend to pay for all the fish you’ve given me. Here is a thousand francs. It’s all I have. I’m sorry I can’t do better.”

  “Madame, I don’t need the money. I can’t accept it. It would spoil our friendship.” I pushed aside the two five-hundred-franc notes. “Please, don’t insist.”

  “As you wish. Won’t you sit down and have a small pastis?”

  For more than an hour that admirable woman talked to me in her charming way. She was sure I’d be acquitted for murdering the punk, that the most I’d get would be eighteen months to two years for the rest.

  As I was leaving, she squeezed my hand for a long time, then said, “Good-by. Good luck,” and burst into tears.

  The warden took me back to the cell block.

  On the way I said, “Sir, your wife is the noblest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I know it, Papillon. She wasn’t made to live here; it’s too hard on her. But what can I do? Well, we have only four more years to go.”

  “Now that we’re alone, sir, I want to thank you for treating me so well in spite of all the trouble I would have caused you if I’d been successful.”

  “Yes, you could have been a real headache, Papillon. All the same, I’ll tell you something. You deserved to succeed.” At the door to the maximum-security section he added:

  “Good-by, Papillon. God help you. You’re going to need it.”

  “Good-by, sir.”

  I certainly was going to need God’s help! The council of war was presided over by a police commissioner with four stripes, and it was tough. Three years for theft and misappropriation, defiling a grave and attempting to escape, plus five years—to be served consecutively—for Celier’s murder. Total: eight years in solitary. If I hadn’t been wounded, I would have got the death penalty for sure.

  SECOND SOLITARY

  I returned to the islands, handcuffed to a Polack named Dandosky. For two premeditated murders he’d got five years. I’d got eight.

  There were sixteen of us, twelve condemned to solitary. The sea was very rough and the deck was often swept by huge waves. My despair was so deep I practically hoped the tub would sink. Absorbed in my fate, I talked to no one. The cold spray stung my face, the wind took my hat. So what! I wouldn’t need it much for my eight years in solitary. At first I had hoped we’d all drown; now I took a different view: Bébert Celier was eaten by sharks; I am thirty and have only eight years to go. But can I survive eight years within the walls of la mangeuse d’hommes?

  From my previous experience I had to say no. Four to five years had to be the absolute limit of human resistance. If I hadn’t killed Celier, I’d have only three years to do, maybe only two, but that murder had messed up everything. I should never have killed the punk. My duty to myself was not to get even but, above anything else, to live—to live in order to escape. How could I have been such a dope? Even though he very nearly killed me, the filthy bastard. Live, live, live, that’s what should have been, and must be from now on, my only religion.

  Among the guards who accompanied the convoy there was one I remembered from the Réclusion. I couldn’t recall his name, but I had a crazy desire to ask him a question.

  “Chief, I’d like to ask you something.”

  Surprised, he came nearer. “What?”

  “Have you ever known anybody who lived through eight years of solitary?”

  He thought a moment and said, “No, but I’ve known several who did five years, and there was even one—I remember him very well—who got out in good health and sound mind after six years. I was at the Réclusion when he was freed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ve got eight years, they tell me.”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “You’ll make it only if you’re never given extra punishment.”

  Those were very important words. I’d get out alive only if I was never punished. Punishment meant taking away part or all of your food for a certain length of time. After that, even when you were back on a normal diet, you could never make it up. A few mild punishments and you were dead. Conclusion: I would accept no coconuts, no cigarettes, not even write or receive notes.

  For the rest of the trip I chewed this over. I would have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the outside or inside world. Then an idea came to me: the only way to get better food without risk was to get someone on the outside to pay the soup distributor to give me the biggest and best piece of meat at noon. That was easy, because one man ladled out the broth and another man carried a platter of meat from which he chose the piece for your bowl. I had to get the first man to scrape the bottom of the pot and give me all the vegetables he could. This idea brought me comfort. If I could set this up, I’d be able to satisfy my hunger—or just about. Then, in order not to go mad, all I had to do was dream, flying as far away as possible and choosing only the most pleasant subjects.

  We got back to the islands at three in the afternoon. I was no sooner off the boat than I noticed Juliette’s pale-yellow dress next to her husband. The warden came up to me even before we had lined up and asked, “How many?”

  “Eight.”

  He turned to his wife and spoke to her. She sat down on a rock, obviously stunned. Then her husband took her by the arm. She got to her feet and, looking at me somberly with her big eyes, walked away.
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br />   “Papillon,” Dega asked, “how many?”

  “Eight years in solitary.” He was silent, and didn’t even dare look at me. Galgani came up, and before he could speak I said, “Don’t send me a thing. Don’t write to me. With this long sentence I can’t take any risks.”

  “I understand.”

  In a low voice I added quickly, “See if you can get me the best food possible at noon and at night. If you can manage it, maybe we’ll see each other again someday. Good-by.”

  I headed for the boat that was to take us back to Saint-Joseph. Everybody looked at me as if I were a coffin being lowered into the grave. No one spoke.

  During the short trip I repeated to Chapar what I’d said to Galgani. He replied, “That should be easy enough. Chin up, Papi.” Then he asked, “What about Carbonieri?”

  “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. The President of the council asked for more information on his case before making a decision. Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s good, I think.”

  I was in the first row of the column of twelve men that climbed the hill to the Réclusion. I walked fast. It’s strange, but I was actually in a hurry to get to my cell and be alone. In fact, I was rushing so fast that the guard said, “Slow down, Papillon. You look as if you were in a hurry to get home.” Then we were there.

  The guard said, “Strip, everybody. The chief warden at Réclusion will address you now.”

  He made his usual speech—“Réclusionnaires, here we …”—then turned to me. “I’m sorry to see you back, Papillon. You’re in Building A, cell one twenty-seven. It’s the best one, Papillon. You’re opposite the door to the hall so you have more light and you’ll always have fresh air. I hope you intend to behave. Eight years is a long time, but who knows? If your conduct is good, you may get a year or two off. I hope so; you’re a brave man.”

  So I was in number 127. It was exactly opposite a large barred door that opened into the passageway. Although it was already six o’clock, you could see quite clearly. Nor did this cell have the odor of rot that my first one had. That was encouraging. Old man, I told myself, these four walls will be watching you for the next eight years. Don’t count every month and hour; that’s a waste of time. Try six-month periods. Sixteen times six months and you’re free again. You have one advantage anyway. If you croak in here, you have the satisfaction of dying in the light—if you die during the day, that is. It can’t be much fun to die in the dark. If you’re sick, here at least, the doctor can see your face. Don’t blame yourself for trying to escape and live again, and for God’s sake, don’t feel guilty about killing Celier. Just think how you’d suffer if he left on a cavale while you were in here. Anyway, maybe there’ll be an amnesty, a war, an earthquake; maybe a typhoon will destroy this place. Why not? Maybe some honest man, returning to France, will move the French to force the Penal Administration to put an end to this guillotining of men without benefit of guillotine. Maybe a doctor, sickened by what he has seen, will spill it to a journalist or to a priest. Who knows? In any event, Celier has been eaten by the sharks, but you’re here, you have your pride, you’ll get out of this tomb alive.