The conclusion was positive. As soon as I got there I must escape together with Dega and Galgani, and that was the only thing I was to concentrate upon at this point. I touched the scalpel, and the feel of the cold steel handle pleased me. It gave me confidence, having such a formidable weapon as that upon me. I had already proved how useful it could be in that business with the Arabs.
About three o’clock in the morning the men for solitary piled up eleven kitbags in front of the bars of the cell: they were all crammed full and each had a big label on it. I could read one that hung in through the bars. C –, Pierre, thirty years old, five foot eight and a half, waist size forty-two, shoes eight and a half, number x. This Pierre C – was Pierrot le Fou, a guy from Bordeaux who had got twenty years hard in Paris for homicide.
He was a good type, a decent, straightforward member of the underworld, and I knew him well. The label showed me how precise and well-organized the authorities in charge of the penal settlement were. It was better than the army, where they make you try your things on by guesswork. Here everything was written down and so each man would get things his own size. I could see from a bit of canvas at the top of the bag that the uniform was white with vertical red stripes. Dressed like that, you could scarcely pass unnoticed.
I tried to force my mind to make pictures of the assizes, the jurymen, the prosecuting counsel, etc. It flatly refused to obey me, and I could only get it to produce ordinary images. It came to me that if you want to live through anything imaginary as vividly as I did at the Conciergerie or at Beaulieu you have to be alone, utterly alone. It was a relief to understand this, and I saw that the communal life that was coming would bring other needs with it, other reactions and other plans.
Pierrot le Fou came up to the bars and said, ‘OK, Papi?’
‘What about you?’
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’d always dreamed of going to America; but I was a gambler, so I could never save enough for the trip. The cops had the idea of making me a present of it. You can’t deny it was kind of them, Papillon.’ He was speaking naturally. There was no bragging about what he said. You could feel that right down he was sure of himself. ‘The cops’ free trip to America has something to be said for it, you know. I’d much rather go to Guiana than sweat out fifteen years of solitary in France.’
‘As I see it going crazy in a cell or just falling apart in some solitary confinement hole in France is even worse than dying of leprosy or yellow fever.’
‘That’s how I see it too,’ he said.
‘Look, Pierrot, this label is yours.’
He bent down, looking very close to read it, and slowly he made out the words. ‘I can’t wait to put these clothes on. I’ve a mind to open the bag – no one will say anything. After all, they’re meant for me.’
‘You leave it alone and wait till they tell you. This isn’t the time to ask for trouble, Pierre. I need some peace and quiet.’ He grasped what I meant and moved away from the bars.
Louis Dega looked at me and said, ‘This is our last night, boy. Tomorrow they’re taking us far away from our beautiful country.’
‘Our beautiful country hasn’t got such a very beautiful system of justice, Dega. Maybe we’ll come to know countries that aren’t so beautiful but that have a slightly more human way of treating people who have slipped up.’ I didn’t think I was so near the truth: the future was to show me that I was dead right. Total silence fell again.
Leaving for Guiana
Six o’clock, and everything was in motion. Convicts came round with coffee and then four warders appeared. Today they were in white; they still carried their revolvers. Spotless white tunics and buttons that shone like gold. One had three gold chevrons on his left sleeve: nothing on his shoulders.
‘Transportees, come out into the corridor in twos. Each man will find the bag with his name on the label. Take the bag and move back against the wall, facing the corridor with your bag in front of you.’
It took twenty minutes before we were all lined up with our kitbags at our feet.
‘Strip: roll up your things, put them into the jacket, bundle it all up and tie the sleeves … right. You over there, pick up the rolls and put them into the cell. Now dress. Put on vest, drawers, striped drill trousers, drill jacket, shoes and socks … You’re all dressed?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le surveillant.’
‘Right. Keep the woollen jersey out of the bag in case it rains or turns cold. Bags on your left shoulder. In double file, follow me.’
With the sergeant in front, two warders at the sides and the fourth behind, our little column moved out to the courtyard. In under two hours eight hundred and ten convicts were lined up there. Forty men were called out, including Dega and me and the three who were being sent back after their escape – Julot, Galgani and Santini. These forty men were lined up in rows of ten. Each rank of the column that was taking shape had a warder beside it. No chains, no handcuffs. Three yards in front of us, walking backwards, ten gendarmes. They faced us, rifle in hand, and they marched like that all the way, each steered by another gendarme holding his shoulder-belt.
The great gate of the citadel opened, and slowly the column began to move. As the line emerged from the fortress so more gendarmes, carrying rifles or light machine-guns, joined the convoy, staying a couple of yards from it and keeping pace. Other gendarmes held back a huge crowd that had come to watch us leaving for the penal settlements. Half way to the quay I heard a quiet whistle from the windows of a house. I looked up and saw Nénette, my wife, and my friend Antoine D – at one window; Paula, Dega’s wife, and his friend Antoine Giletti were at the other. Dega saw them too, and we marched with our eyes fixed on those windows as long as we could see them. That was the last time I ever set eyes on my wife: or my friend Antoine, who died much later in an air-raid on Marseilles. No one spoke. There was a total silence. No prisoner, no warder, no gendarme, no person in the crowd disturbed that truly heart-rending moment when everyone knew that one thousand eight hundred men were about to vanish from ordinary life for ever.
We went aboard. The forty in front – that is to say us – were sent to the bottom of the hold, into a cage with thick bars. There was a marker on it. I read ‘Hall no. 1. 40 men top special category. Strict, continual surveillance.’ Each man was given a rolled-up hammock. There were quantities of rings to hang them by. Someone seized me in his arms: it was Julot. He knew all about this, because he had already made the voyage ten years before. He knew how to cope. He said, ‘This way, quick. Hang your bag where you’re going to hang your hammock. This place is near two closed port-holes, but they’ll be opened when we’re at sea, and we’ll be able to breathe better here than anywhere else in the cage.’
I introduced Dega. We were talking when a man came our way. Julot put out his arm and blocked the path. He said, ‘Never come over this side if you want to reach penal alive. Get it?’ ‘Yes,’ said the other man. ‘You know why?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then bugger off.’ The guy went. Dega was delighted with this show of strength and he didn’t hide it. ‘With you two, I’ll be able to sleep easy.’ Julot said, ‘With us, you’re safer here than in any villa on the coast that has a single window open.’
The voyage lasted eighteen days. Only one piece of excitement. Everyone was woken by an enormous shriek in the night. A character was found dead with a long