An officer said, “That man’s a walking corpse!”
“They’re all in terrible shape,” the governor replied.
The group had now reached me. The warden said, “This man has the heaviest sentence at Réclusion.”
“What’s your name?”
“Charrière.”
“Your sentence?”
“Eight years. Three for theft of material belonging to the State, et cetera, and five for murder, sentences to be served consecutively.”
“How much have you done?”
“Eighteen months.”
“How’s his conduct been?”
“Good,” the warden said.
“His health?”
“Fair,” the doctor said.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“That the life here is inhuman and unworthy of the French people.”
“How so?”
“Absolute silence, no going outdoors and, until recently, no medical attention.”
“Behave yourself and maybe you’ll be pardoned if I’m still governor.”
“Thank you.”
From that day on, by order of the governor and the chief doctor, who had come from Martinique and Cayenne respectively, every morning we had an hour’s walk and a swim in a kind of pool made with big blocks of stone to keep the sharks out.
Every morning at nine, in groups of a hundred, we walked down for our swim. The guards’ wives and children were told to stay home so we could go down stripped.
This had been going on for a month, and a dramatic change had come over the men’s faces. The hour in the sun, the swim in salt water, being able to talk for an hour each day, all had transformed this herd of morally and physically sick men.
One day I was among the last going back up after our swim when I heard the desperate shrieks of a woman followed by two revolver shots.
“Help, help, Lisette’s drowning!”
The screams came from the quay, which was no more than a cement ramp leading down to the water where you got into the boats. More screams followed.
“Sharks!”
Then two more shots. Everybody had turned in the direction of the noise. Without thinking what I was doing, I pushed a guard aside and ran, naked, toward the quay. Standing there were two women screaming to wake the dead, three guards and a few Arabs.
“Jump in the water!” one of the women shouted at me. “She isn’t far. I can’t swim or I’d go. You pack of cowards!”
“Sharks!” a guard called out and shot again.
A little girl in a blue dress was being carried off by a gentle current. She was heading straight for the bagnards’ cemetery. The guards kept on shooting. They must have hit a few sharks, for the water around her was boiling.
“Stop shooting!” I yelled and threw myself into the water. With the help of the current and vigorous kicking to keep the sharks away, I made quick time to the little girl, who was being kept afloat by her dress.
I wasn’t more than thirty or forty yards away when a boat from Royale appeared. It reached the little girl before me and she was pulled out of the water, then me. I wept with anger. I had risked my life for nothing.
At least that’s what I thought. But a month later, as a reward, Dr. Guibert was able to get my sentence in solitary suspended for medical reasons.
EIGHTH NOTEBOOK
THE RETURN TO ROYALE
THE BUFFALOES
IT WAS A KIND OF miracle to be back on Royale. I had left it with an eight-year sentence. Because of the attempted rescue I was back nineteen months later.
All my friends were there: Dega, who was still clerk; Galgani, still the postman; Carbonieri, who had been acquitted; Grandet; Bourset the carpenter; the “wheelbarrow boys,” Narric and Quenier; Chatal in the infirmary—my accomplice in my first cavale—and Maturette, who was an infirmary aide.
All the bandits of the Corsican maquis were also there: Essari, Vicioli, Césari, Razori, Fosco, Maucuer and Chapar. All the headliners of the yellow press from 1927 to 1935 were there.
Marsino, the man who killed Dufrêne, had died the week before of an illness. That day the sharks had had a choice morsel. They had been served up one of the greatest experts on precious stones in all of Paris.
Also Barrat, nicknamed “La Comédienne,” the millionaire tennis player from Limoges, who had killed his chauffeur and the chauffeur’s intimate friend, his too intimate friend. Barrat was head of the laboratory and pharmacist at the Royale hospital. One facetious doctor claimed that the only way you got into the hospital was by droit de seigneur.
My arrival back on Royale was like a clap of thunder. It was a Saturday morning when I returned to the building of the “hardened criminals.” Almost everybody was there and they all welcomed me with open arms. Even the mec of the watches, who hadn’t spoken since that famous morning when he had almost been guillotined by mistake, came over to say hello.
“Well, boys, everybody okay?”
“Okay, Papi. Welcome back.”
“Your place is still here,” Grandet said. “It’s been empty since the day you left.”
“Thanks. Anything new?”
“One good thing.”
“What?”
“Last night the punk who spied on you from the top of the palm was found murdered. A friend of yours must have done it, knowing you wouldn’t want to see the devil alive, and wanting to spare you the chore.”
“I’d like to know who it was so I can thank him.”
“Maybe he’ll tell you someday. They found the rat at roll call this morning with a knife in his heart. Nobody saw or heard a thing.”
“It’s better that way. How’s the game going?”
“O.K. You still have your place.”
“Great. So hard labor for life begins again. And who knows how or when the story will end.”
“Papi, we were shocked as hell when we heard you got eight years. Now that you’re back, there isn’t a man on the islands who won’t help you, no matter how risky it is.”
“The warden wants you,” an old man said.
I went with him. At the guardhouse several of the men had kind words for me. I followed the old man and eventually found myself in front of Warden Prouillet.
“How are you, Papillon?”
“Fine, sir.”
“I’m glad you got your pardon, and I must congratulate you for showing such courage in the matter of my colleague’s little girl.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to put you in charge of the buffaloes until your old job is free again, along with your right to fish.”
“I’d like that, if you can manage it.”
“I’ll make it my business. The workshop guard isn’t here any more, and I leave for France in three weeks. O.K., you start tomorrow.”
“How can I thank you?”
“By waiting a month before you try another cavale,” Prouillet said, laughing.
In our room the same men were leading the same lives as before. The gamblers were a class apart, thinking and living only for cards. The men with young boys lived, ate and slept with them. These were real households, where passion and love between men dominated their thoughts day and night. There were scenes of uncontrolled jealousy where the “wife” and “husband” spied on each other. When one of them tired of the other and flew off to a new affair, inevitably someone was killed.
Last week, for love of beautiful Charlie Barrat, a black named Simplon killed a guy named Sidero. Sidero was the third man Simplon had killed for love of Charlie.
I hadn’t been back for more than a few hours when a man called on me.
“Say, Papillon, I want to know if Maturette is your boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“I have my own reasons.”
“Listen. Maturette made a cavale with me, we covered fifteen hundred miles and he behaved like a man. That’s all I have to say.”
“I want to know if he belongs to you.”
“No, I�
��ve never had sex with Maturette. He’s my friend. The rest is none of my business, unless somebody does him harm.”
“What if he becomes my wife?”
“If he consents, fine. But if you have to threaten him to get him, then you’ll have to deal with me.”
Passive or active, homosexuals are all the same; as soon as they settle into their passion, they think of nothing else.
I saw the Italian who had the gold plan on our convoy. He came to say hello.
“You’re still here?” I asked.
“I’ve tried everything. My mother sent me twelve thousand francs, the guard took a commission of six thousand, I spent four thousand to get disinterned. I managed to get myself X-rayed in Cayenne, but nothing came of it. Then I got myself accused of wounding a friend. You know him—Razori, the Corsican.”
“So what happened?”
“He agreed to do it. He wounded himself in the gut and we went to the council of war together, him the accuser and me the accused. We barely had time to look around. They were finished with us in fifteen days. I got six months and did them at Réclusion last year. You didn’t even know I was there. Papi, I can’t stand it any more. I want to kill myself.”
“Better to die at sea in a cavale. Then at least you die free.”
“You’re right. I’m game for anything. If you get something going, just give me the word.”
“O.K.”
Life on Royale resumed. This time I was a buffalo herdsman. One of my charges was named Brutus. He weighed over four thousand pounds and was a killer—of other buffaloes. He had already killed two males. The guard in charge told me, “This is his last chance. If he kills one more, we finish him off.”
I was introduced to Brutus. The black from Martinique who was taking care of him had to spend a week teaching me. I made friends with the bull right away by pissing on his nose: his long tongue went after anything salty. Then I gave him a few green mangoes I’d picked in the hospital garden. I led Brutus down, harnessed him like an ox to the thick shafts of a wagon so primitive it was worthy of the Merovingian kings. It carried a barrel holding almost a thousand gallons of water. My work, and that of my pal Brutus, was to go down to the sea, fill the barrel and climb back up the rugged slope to the plateau. Once there, I turned the barrel spigot and let the water run down the sluices, carrying with it whatever was left from the morning sewage. I started at six and was finished by about nine.
By the end of four days the man from Martinique had decided I was ready to go it on my own. There was only one problem with Brutus: at five in the morning I had to get him out of the pond where he hid because he didn’t like to work. In his sensitive nostrils he wore an iron ring from which hung a chain about twenty inches long. When I was just about to reach him, he’d dive down and come up some distance away. Sometimes it took me over an hour to catch him in the revolting water of the stagnant pond full of insects and water lilies. I muttered in anger: “You bastard! You mulish Breton! Are you going to get out? If you’re not, the hell with you.” He was mine only when I could get hold of his chain. My insults left him unmoved. But when I had him out of the pond, he became my pal again.
I carried two grease buckets full of fresh water. First I’d give myself a bath to wash off the slimy pond water. When I had soaped and rinsed myself thoroughly, I usually had half a bucket left, so I’d scrub Brutus with a coconut branch. I’d rub all his sensitive parts and water him down. Then he’d rub his head against my hands and go get between the wagon shafts all by himself. I never goaded him the way the black had. Brutus must have been grateful, for he moved faster for me than he ever had for him.
There was a small female buffalo who was very much in love with Brutus. She was always tagging along, and I didn’t chase her off the way the other herdsmen did. To the contrary, I let her snuggle up to Brutus and follow us everywhere. When they made love, I let them alone, and as a result Brutus was very beholden to me. He pulled his thousand gallons with extraordinary speed. It was as if he were trying to make up the time his licking sessions with Marguerite (that was her name) cost me.
I made three trips a day. The longest was when the barrel had to be refilled, but there were two men to help me, so it went fairly fast. By nine o’clock I was finished and free to go fishing.
I got Marguerite to help me lure Brutus out of the pond. When her ear was scratched, she let out a sound like a mare in heat. Then Brutus came out all by himself. I no longer needed to wash myself, but I washed Brutus better than ever. Clean and rid of the sickening smell of the water, Brutus was doubly attractive to Marguerite.
On our way back, about halfway up the cliff, we would stop at a little flat place where there was a big rock. I’d brake the wagon against it so Brutus could catch his breath. This particular morning another buffalo named Danton—as big as Brutus—was lying in wait behind some small coconut palms. As we approached, he bolted out and attacked Brutus. Brutus leapt to one side, dodging Danton’s horns, one of which went right through the barrel. While Danton was desperately tugging to get free, I let Brutus out of his harness. Brutus backed up to higher ground—at least thirty yards away—and bore down on Danton at a furious gallop. Before my buffalo could reach him, Danton had yanked himself free of the barrel—leaving a piece of his horn behind. Brutus couldn’t brake himself in time, collided with the wagon and turned it over.
Then the strangest thing happened. Brutus and Danton touched heads, not pushing, just rubbing their big horns together. It was as if they were talking, only they made no noise. Then Marguerite started slowly up the path, followed by the two males who would stop from time to time to rub and tangle horns some more. When this lasted too long, Marguerite gave an amorous moo and resumed her climb. The two mastodons followed. Three more stops, same ceremony, until we finally arrived at the plateau. We were in front of the lighthouse in a flat bare space about three hundred yards wide. At the far end was the bagnards’ camp; to the right and left, the two hospitals—one for us, and one for the guards.
Danton and Brutus were still twenty paces behind. Marguerite went quietly toward the center and stopped. The two enemies came abreast. Marguerite let out a long, sexual lament. The males touched horns again, but this time it seemed they really were talking because their breathing was mixed with sounds that clearly meant something.
After their conversation one turned slowly to the right, the other to the left. They took up positions at the far ends of the clearing, three hundred yards apart. Marguerite, still in the center, waited. At last I understood: there was to be a duel, a formal contest, and the young female was the trophy. It was all right with Marguerite—she was proud to have two such suitors fighting over her.
A high, quavery moo from Marguerite started it; the two bulls threw themselves into the fray. I don’t need to point out that, crossing the three hundred yards between them, their four thousand pounds multiplied as the speed increased. By the time their two heads crashed together, the shock was so great it knocked both of them out for five minutes. Brutus was the first one up and he galloped back to his place. This stage of the battle lasted two hours. Some of the guards wanted to kill Brutus then, but I said no. During the next set-to, Danton broke off the horn he had injured on the barrel. He started to run with Brutus after him. The next stage of the battle lasted until the following day. Wherever they went—garden, cemetery, or washhouse—they left a trail of destruction.
It wasn’t until seven in the morning that Brutus finally pinned Danton against the wall of the butcher shop down on the quay and pierced his belly with his horn. Then to finish him off, Brutus rolled over twice, twisting his horn deeper into his victim’s belly. Gushing blood and guts, Danton fell in a heap.
The battle between the monsters had so weakened Brutus that I had to disengage his horn for him to get up. He staggered down the path that wound along the shore, and Marguerite walked alongside, holding her hornless head high.
I did not share their honeymoon. The guard in charge of the buffalo
es accused me of unharnessing Brutus and I lost my job as herdsman.
I asked to speak to the warden about Brutus.
“Papillon, what in God’s name happened? Brutus has to be killed; he’s too dangerous. We’ve lost three good buffaloes on account of him.”
“That’s why I came to see you. I want you to save Brutus. The field guard doesn’t understand that Brutus was acting in legitimate self-defense. Will you let me explain?”
The warden smiled. “I’m listening.”
I told him the story. “… so now you understand, sir, how my buffalo was the one who was attacked. Furthermore, if I hadn’t unhitched Brutus, Danton would have killed him because Brutus was harnessed to his yoke and couldn’t have defended himself.”
“That’s true,” the warden said.
Then the field guard arrived. “Good morning, sir. Papillon, I was looking for you. You left this morning as if you were going to work. But you had no work to do.”
“Mr. Angosti, I left because I wanted to try to stop the battle. Unfortunately it was past stopping.”
“That may be, but I told you you’re not to handle the buffaloes any longer. Besides, we’re killing Brutus Sunday morning. He’ll provide meat for the penitentiary.”
“You can’t do that.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“No, I can’t, but the warden can. And if that isn’t enough, I’ll ask Dr. Guibert to stop it.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“None of your business. That buffalo is my responsibility, and he’s my friend.”
“Your friend? A buffalo? You trying to pull my leg?”
“Listen, Mr. Angosti, will you let me talk for a minute?”
“Let him defend the buffalo,” the warden said.
“O.K. Go ahead.”
“Do you believe that animals talk to each other?”
“Why not?—if they communicate at all.”
“All right then. Brutus and Danton were fighting a duel.”
I told the whole story again, from beginning to end.
“Christacho!” the Corsican said. “You’re a strange guy, Papillon. Do what you like about Brutus, but one more death and nobody can save him, not even the warden. You can go back to being a herdsman. But see that Brutus does some work.”
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