Papillon (53 page)

“Arnaud was about to climb the steps to the warden’s house when the Arab who worked there happened to open the door, holding one of the warden’s little girls by the hand and the other in his arms. Both men were caught by surprise. The Arab tried to kick Arnaud. Arnaud was about to kill him when the Arab held the child out in front of him as a shield. All this time there wasn’t a sound. Five or six times Arnaud aimed the gun at different parts of the Arab. Each time the Arab held the child between him and the gun. Then Hautin grabbed the bottom of the Arab’s pants. As he was about to fall, the Arab threw the child against the gun in Arnaud’s hands. Arnaud was thrown off-balance, Hautin grabbed the Arab’s leg. Arnaud, the Arab and the other child all fell in a heap. For the first time there were sounds: first screams from the kids, then from the Arab, then curses from Arnaud and Hautin.

“The gun had fallen to the ground. The Arab got to it first, but he had it only by the barrel and in his left hand. Hautin caught hold of his leg again. Arnaud grabbed his right arm and twisted it, but before they could get it away from him, the Arab threw the carbine a good ten yards.

“As the three of them were running after it, the first shot rang out, fired by a guard in charge of a leaf-raking gang. The warden appeared at his window and started to shoot, but for fear of hitting the Arab, he aimed where the carbine had fallen. Hautin and Arnaud fled toward the camp by way of the path that follows the shore. Hautin, with his stiff leg, couldn’t run fast enough and was shot down before he reached the water. Arnaud rushed in between the guards’ pool and the one under construction. The place is always swarming with sharks. As another guard came up, he hid himself behind a big rock.

“‘Give up,’ the guard shouted, ‘and your life will be saved.’

“‘Never,’ Arnaud answered back. ‘I’d rather be eaten by the sharks. Then at least I won’t have to look at your ugly faces any more.’

“With that he waded into the sea—smack into the sharks. A bullet must have grazed him. Anyway he stopped for a second. But the guards went right on shooting and Arnaud kept moving farther out. The water wasn’t up to his chest when the sharks hit. The guards saw him clearly, belting a shark that was coming at him half out of the water. He was literally drawn and quartered as the sharks yanked at him from all sides. In less than five minutes he’d disappeared.

“The guards must have shot at the pack a hundred times at least. One shark was killed; he floated up to the beach, belly side up. As guards began to move in from all sides, Marceau tried to save his skin by throwing the revolver into the well. But the Arabs got to their feet, beating him with sticks, fists and feet, and pushed him toward the guards, saying he was in the plot. Even though he was covered and had his hands up, the guards shot him dead. To finish him off, one of them crushed his head with the butt of his carbine, holding it like a bludgeon by the end of the barrel.

“As for Hautin, the guards completely unloaded their carbines into him, thirty men, six shots each, over one hundred and fifty bullets. The poor
mecs
killed by Filisarri were men the Arabs said had started to follow Arnaud, then thought better of it. That was an out-and-out lie, because, accomplices or not, no one moved.”

We had now been locked up in our various buildings for two days. Nobody went to work. The guards at the door were changed every two hours. Between the buildings, more guards. We were forbidden to talk from one building to the next, forbidden to stand near a window. We could see the yard through the barred door only by standing to one side in the alley that separated the two rows of hammocks. Reinforcements were sent over from Royale. Not a single con was allowed outside. Nor a single Arab turnkey. We were all locked in. From time to time you saw a man stripped to the skin being led toward the maximum-security cells. Guards were constantly looking in on us through the side windows. The ones who stood at the door had short hours, but they never sat down or let go of their guns. They held their carbines under their arms, ready to shoot.

We decided to try playing in small groups of five. No big games—it would make too much noise. Marquetti started to play a Beethoven sonata, but a guard made him stop.

“No music! We’re in mourning.”

An unnatural tension reigned not only in the
case
but throughout the camp. No coffee, no soup. A piece of bread in the morning, corned beef at noon, corned beef for supper, one can to four men. Nothing of ours had been destroyed, so we had coffee and a little food: butter, oil, flour, etc. The other
cases
had nothing left. We started a fire in the toilets to make coffee, but when he saw the smoke, a guard made us put it out.

An old con from Marseilles by the name of Niston made the coffee to sell. He had the gall to tell the guard, “If you want the fire put out, go in and do it yourself.” The guard shot through the window. Coffee and fire disappeared quickly.

Niston was hit in the leg. We were so tensed up that we thought we were all going to be shot and threw ourselves flat on the floor.

Filisarri, who was still on duty as head of the guard detail, came running in like a madman, accompanied by his four guards. The one who had done the shooting was a Frenchman. Filisarri cursed him out in Corsican, but he didn’t understand a word. All he could say was, “Don’t understand.”

We got back on our hammocks.

Niston’s leg was bleeding. “Don’t tell ’em I’m wounded. They might take advantage of the opportunity and finish me off out there.”

Filisarri told Marquetti in Corsican, “Go make your coffee. Nothing more is going to happen.” Then he left.

Niston was lucky: the bullet hadn’t stayed in his leg. It had entered below the calf muscle and gone out farther up. A tourniquet was applied, the bleeding stopped, and he was given a vinegar dressing.

“Papillon, come.” It was eight at night and dark outside. “The warden wants to see you.”

“Tell him to come here. I’m not leaving.”

“You refuse?”

“Yes, I refuse.”

My friends came and stood around me in a circle. The guard spoke through the closed door. Marquetti went up to him and said, “We’re not letting Papillon out unless the warden comes.”

“But it’s the warden who’s sent for him.”

“Tell him to come himself.”

An hour later two young guards were at the door. With them they had the Arab who worked at the warden’s, the one who had come to his rescue and broken up the revolt.

“Papillon, it’s me, Mohamed. The warden wants to see you. He can’t come himself so he sent me.”

Marquetti said, “Papi, the
mec
has a gun.”

I left the circle and went to the door. It was true that Mohamed was carrying a carbine under his arm. That was really something. A
bagnard
officially armed with a carbine!

“Come,” the Algerian said to me. “I’m here to protect you.”

I didn’t believe him.

“Come along.”

I went out. Mohamed stationed himself at my side and the two guards stood behind. As we passed the guards’ house by the camp entrance, Filisarri said, “Papillon, I hope you’re not holding anything against me.”

“Not me. Or anybody else in our
case
. I wouldn’t know about the others.”

We went down to the warden’s. The house and the quay were dimly lit by carbide lamps. On the way Mohamed gave me a pack of Gauloises. We entered a room brightly lit by two carbide lamps, and seated there were the warden of Royale, his deputy, the warden of Saint-Joseph, the warden of Réclusion and the deputy warden of Saint-Joseph.

Just outside I noticed four Arabs under guard. I recognized two of them as belonging to the work gang under discussion.

Mohamed said, “Here’s Papillon.”

“Good evening, Papillon,” said the warden of Saint-Joseph.

“Good evening.”

“Please sit down.”

I sat down, facing the lot. The door of the room opened into the kitchen, where I saw Lisette’s godmother making a gesture of greeting.

The warden of Royale began, “Papillon, Warden Dutain considers you a man he can trust. I know you only from official reports which describe you as a dangerous man. But I’d like to forget these and believe my colleague Dutain. Now, we know that a commission will be sent here to investigate the incident and that all the convicts will be asked to tell what they know. We also know that you and a few other men have great influence on the convicts and that they will follow your advice. What we want now is your view of the revolt and some information on what you think your
case
and the others are prepared to tell us.”

“Sir, I can tell you nothing, nor can I influence the others. I might add that, if there is a serious investigation, with the situation the way it is now, you’re all in trouble.”

“What do you mean, Papillon? My colleagues and I stopped the revolt on Saint-Joseph.”

“Maybe you’re in the clear, but not the officials on Royale.”

“Explain yourself!” The two wardens of Royale started to get up, then sat down again.

“If you continue to speak of it officially as a revolt, you’re through. If you will accept my conditions, I can save you all—except Filisarri.”

“What are your conditions?”

“First, that you let things get back to normal, starting tomorrow morning. It’s only by talking among ourselves that we can influence the rest and decide what we’ll tell the commission. Will you agree to this?”

“Yes,” Dutain said. “But why do we need saving?”

“You on Royale are in charge, not only of Royale, but of all three islands.”

“Right.”

“Now, you were told by Girasolo that a revolt was being planned and that the leaders were Hautin and Arnaud.”

“And Carbonieri.”

“No, that’s not true. Carbonieri has been an enemy of Girasolo’s ever since their Marseilles days. He was implicated in this thing solely for revenge. Now,
you did not believe in this revolt
. Why? Because Girasolo told you that the object of the revolt was to kill women, children, Arabs and guards, and you thought this ridiculous. Also, a mass
cavale
was impossible. There were only two launches for eight hundred men at Royale and one for six hundred at Saint-Joseph. Nobody in his right mind would have gone along with such a stunt.”

“How do you know this?”

“That’s my business. But if you continue to talk about a revolt—even if you get rid of me, or especially if you do—it will all come out in the open. Therefore the responsibility lies with Royale, which sent these men to Saint-Joseph without separating them. The logical move would have been to send one to Diable and the other to Saint-Joseph. When the commission discovers this, you’ll be in for it, even though I realize it was hard to believe such a wild scheme at the time. So I repeat, if you go on talking revolt, you’re digging your own graves. Now these are my conditions: first, as I said before, that life return to normal starting tomorrow; second, that all the men now in dungeons be freed immediately and not interrogated as accomplices in a revolt
since there was no revolt
; third, that Filisarri be sent to Royale immediately, for his own safety and also because, if there was no revolt, how can you justify the murder of three men? And murder is what it was. That guard is a killer. When the incident took place, he was scared stiff and would have gladly shot us all. If you accept these conditions, I’ll see to it that everybody states that Arnaud, Hautin and Marceau had decided to commit suicide by killing as many people as they could before they were killed themselves. They had no accomplices, no allies. Now, if you like, I’ll go into the kitchen so you can talk it over by yourselves.”

I went into the kitchen and closed the door. Mme. Dutain squeezed my hand and offered me some coffee and a brandy. Mohamed said, “Did you say anything about me?”

“The warden will take care of you. From the moment he allowed you to have a gun, it was clear he intended to see that you’re pardoned.”

Mme. Dutain said softly, “Well, well! So Royale won’t get away with it, after all!”

“It was too damn easy for them to agree there had been a revolt on Saint-Joseph that everybody knew about except your husband.”

“Papillon, I heard everything and understood right away that you were doing us a good turn.”

The door opened. “Papillon, come in,” a guard said.

“Please sit down,” said the warden of Royale. “We’ve discussed the matter and it’s our unanimous decision that you are correct. There was no revolt. The three convicts decided to commit suicide, first killing as many people as possible. So tomorrow life goes back to normal. Monsieur Filisarri goes to Royale this very night. His case is our affair and I will not ask you to collaborate. We depend on your keeping your word.”

“You can count on me.”

“Mohamed, you and the two guards take Papillon back to his
case
. Have Filisarri brought here. He will go to Royale with us.”

As we were walking, I told Mohamed that I hoped he’d get his freedom. He thanked me.

Back in the
case
, there was absolute silence as I told what had happened, word for word, in a loud voice so that everybody could hear.

“If there’s anybody here who doesn’t agree, or wants to criticize the arrangements I made, let him speak up now.” Nobody disagreed.