Jezebel (4 page)

‘You are seeing her today for the first time in twenty years?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘You have been called as a witness in this painful case because a letter addressed to you was found in the defendant’s home. We have that letter here. It will be read to the gentlemen of the jury.’

The accused woman lowered her head and heard her letter read out:

‘This letter was stamped and addressed to you in Switzerland, but it was never posted.’

‘And I deeply regret that,’ Beauchamp said quietly.

‘I wish the defendant to tell me if she wrote this with the intention of confiding in her relative.’

She stood up with difficulty and nodded. ‘Yes …’

‘Did you wish to tell him about Bernard Martin? Share your concerns with him over this relationship? Ask his advice? It is regrettable that you did not follow through with your initial plan …’

‘Perhaps,’ she replied, slowly shrugging her shoulders.

‘Will the witness please tell us whether the accused wrote him any letters in recent months?’

‘Never. The last letter I received from her was the one she wrote telling me of her daughter’s death.’

‘In your opinion, was the defendant capable of an act of violence?’

‘No, Your Honour.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’

He left. Other witnesses were shown into the box. Gladys looked up now and again, as if she were trying to find the face of a friend in the crowd. The very people whose curiosity had been so painful to her a few hours earlier now looked away; they were already weary, morose, indifferent. The crowd was beginning to feel the excitement and tiredness that comes at the end of a trial. Through a
badly closed door, waves of noise from the corridor occasionally reached the courtroom, like the sea washing against a little island. The members of the public coldly examined the trembling, pale, haggard face of the accused, like people looking at a wild animal, imprisoned behind the bars of its cage: savage but confined, its teeth and nails pulled out, panting, half dead …

There were sniggers, shrugs of the shoulder, muffled exclamations. Everyone was whispering: ‘How disappointing … People said she was so beautiful but she looks like an old woman …’

‘Come on, be fair. I’d like to see what you’d look like after being held in custody for months, wearing no make-up at all, not to mention the remorse she must be feeling …’

‘Thanks very much!’

‘She’s attractive; that’s undeniable … She’s slim … Look at how beautiful her hands are … Hands that committed murder …’

‘Still, it isn’t very common for rich people to commit murder.’

‘She’s proof …’

In the very back row of the standing gallery a woman sighed. ‘Imagine cheating on a lover like Count Monti …’

The witnesses now being heard were people who had known Bernard Martin, but the indifferent crowd was barely listening any more. In this trial, only the accused woman was exciting; the victim was no more than a vague ghost. The apathetic public learned that Bernard Martin was born in Beix (Alpes-Maritimes) on 13 April 1915,
and that the names of his mother and father were not known. Later in his life he had been legally acknowledged as the son of Martial Martin, a butler, who cohabited with Berthe Souprosse, a cook. Both had been in the service of the Dukes de Joux, who had provided them with an income until they died, Martial Martin in 1919 and Berthe Souprosse in 1932. Berthe seemed genuinely to have loved little Bernard. She had raised him attentively and in a manner that was quite above her station. The boy had been awarded a scholarship to the Lycée Louis-le-Grand.

A statement from one of Bernard Martin’s former teachers was read out to the court: ‘ “A gloomy, bitter, silent character. Exceptionally intelligent, with some indication of a genius in the making, or at least the kind of tenacity and deep, insightful patience which, when focused on a specific topic, appears as genius.”

‘This is an extract from my personal notes that date from the time when the poor child was reaching adolescence. I can add, now that I have searched my memory, that these gifts of patience and foresight were most often employed in the quest for vain amusement. Bernard Martin’s only passion seemed to be to solve some current problem, whatever it might have been, and once he had done so, he immediately lost interest in the work or the game he had managed to master. When he was a young boy, he learned English in three months, all by himself, using only a dictionary, as the result of a bet with one of his classmates. Having reached a certain level of competence in the language, he suddenly stopped studying it and never again said a single word in English. A born mathematician, one of the best in my class, he
was accepted at university, as I had predicted, doubtlessly still motivated by the same perverse curiosity and keen ambition that I found he had at the age of twelve. It was very difficult to influence him. He was the kind of boy who could not be improved by mixing with the right people, or corrupted by a bad crowd. He seemed to live according to his own laws and to obey only his own code of conduct.

‘He had modest tastes, even displaying a certain leaning towards asceticism, and he was extremely ambitious; the role of the affectionate lover of a wealthy woman seems totally out of character for him. He must surely have been seduced by the status of a woman in high society: he suffered because of the obscure nature of his birth and wished to make his way in the world.

‘I deplore the tragedy that cost him his life, for I always believed the boy to have a promising future.’

‘Bring in the next witness.’

It was a young lad of about twenty who looked as if he came from the east Mediterranean. His black hair was badly cut and he had a dry face that seemed very emotional. He spoke quickly, mumbling a bit, embarrassed no doubt by his foreign accent.

‘State your name.’

‘Constantin Slotis.’

‘Age?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Your address?’

‘6 rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques.’

‘Profession?’

‘Medical student.’

‘You are neither related to nor a friend of the accused. You do not work for her nor does she work for you. Do you swear to speak without prejudice and with no fear of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Raise your hand and say, “I so do swear.” Did you know Bernard Martin?’

‘We were neighbours.’

‘Did he ever confide in you?’

‘Never. He wasn’t the type. He never talked much.’

‘What type of man was he, in your opinion?’

‘Sarcastic, violent, not very sociable. We had some friends in common, men and women. Everyone will tell you the same thing.’

‘Did he have financial problems?’

‘We all did. What I mean, Your Honour, is that in the Latin Quarter we live fairly well from the first day of the month to the fifth, but that’s about it.’

‘Did he ever borrow money from you?’

‘No, but he would have had a hard time doing it. You don’t go looking for water in a dry river, as the saying goes where I come from.’

‘Did you have the impression that his financial resources had increased shortly before his death?’

‘No, Your Honour.’

‘Did you ever meet the defendant when she visited Bernard Martin at his home?’

‘I only saw her once, on 13 October 1934.’

‘Your recollection seems very precise!’

‘I had an exam the next day and the perfume the woman wore was so strong that I could smell it through my door. It prevented me from working. The next day I got a very
bad mark. That’s why I remember the circumstances so well.’

The people in the courtroom started laughing.

‘When she left,’ Slotis continued, ‘well, I opened my door to get a look at her. She was very beautiful. That’s her all right.’

‘Did she remain at your friend’s very long?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘Did you ever speak to Bernard Martin about her visit?’

‘Yes. I ran into him that same evening at a bordello on the rue Vavin. We were a little drunk, I think … I said to him, “Well, my pal, you’re doing all right for yourself,” you know, the kind of thing you say when something like that happens. He laughed. He had a very harsh look on his face as he laughed. I even thought: “Now there’s a woman who’s going to get it … one day …” ’

‘He was the one who “got it”, as you put it. What did he say then?’

‘He recited Athalie’s dream to me, Your Honour.’

‘What?’

‘My mother Jezebel appeared before me …’

‘That is quite a chastisement,’ said the Judge, looking at Gladys Eysenach.

She was listening to Slotis with intense attention; her delicate nostrils were flaring; her bright eyes stared; a sly, cruel expression appeared on her beautiful, ravaged face, an expression that was the stock image of a murderer. The members of the public watching felt even more confident that they had the right to judge her.

‘Did the witness see Bernard Martin on the eve of his death?’

‘Yes. He was completely drunk.’

‘Did he normally drink?’

‘Rarely, and he could usually hold his liquor, but that night he was completely depressed. He was very upset about the death of one of his former mistresses, Laurette, Laure Pellegrain, who had lived with him until last November. She had tuberculosis. She died in Switzerland.’

‘Did you know about this woman?’ the Judge asked Gladys.

‘Yes,’ she replied with difficulty.

‘And the money that you gave to your young lover went to this woman, did it not?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Look at her,’ a man in the courtroom whispered in his neighbour’s ear, ‘look at the defendant. She must have suffered a lot because of that Bernard Martin. Sometimes when they talk about him, a look of hatred spreads across her face. But apart from that, she doesn’t look like a woman who has killed someone.’

A young blonde with milky white skin and wisps of hair peeking out from under her black hat stepped into the witness box, folding her large red hands in front of her. Her name, Eugenie Wildchild, made the public laugh; even she seemed amused when she heard it.

The Judge banged the table with the paperknife he was holding. ‘It is not appropriate to laugh,’ he said. ‘This is not some sort of show.’

‘I’m only laughing because I’m nervous.’

‘Well, compose yourself and answer the questions. You are employed by Madame Dumont, owner of the building on the rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques where the victim
resided. Do you recognise the defendant as the person who visited Bernard Martin on several occasions?’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ the girl replied, ‘I recognise her.’

‘Did you see her often?’

‘Do you think that, in student lodgings, you remember all the women who come? But her, I noticed her particularly, because she wasn’t like the others; she had beautiful clothes and wore a fox stole. But I don’t remember whether she came three, four or five times. It was something like that …’

‘Did Bernard Martin ever confide in you?’

‘Him? Really!’

‘He doesn’t seem to have left you with a very nice impression.’

‘He was an odd boy. He wasn’t a bad lot, but he was different from the others. Sometimes he would work all night long and then sleep all day. I’ve seen him go days on end without eating anything except the oranges that Madame Laure brought for him. He was affectionate to her. He loved her.’

‘Did she seem jealous of the accused? Did you ever hear them argue?’

‘Never. He was very worried about Madame Laure’s health. She had a problem with her chest. That’s what she died from in Switzerland a month after she went away.’

‘And did you ever overhear any conversations, secrets, requests for money, perhaps, between Bernard Martin and the defendant?’

‘Never. She never stayed long when she came. What I do remember, for example, what I noticed several times when I went into the room after she’d gone, was that the
bed was still all made up. Now, maybe they must have worked it out some other way, don’t you think?’

‘Thank you; no need to go into detail,’ said the Judge, as the crowd laughed.

Meanwhile, the accused woman, huddled on her bench, was overcome by nerves and started shaking. She was sobbing, and saying over and over again in despair, ‘Have pity on me! Let me be. I killed him! Put me in prison, kill me, I deserve it! I deserve it a thousand times over; I deserve to be miserable and put to death, but why subject me to such shame? Yes, I killed him, I’m not asking for leniency, I just want it to be over, please let it be over …’

The hearing was adjourned until the next day. The crowd slowly dispersed. It was late; night was falling.

The summations would be heard the next day.

The accused woman was no longer of interest to anyone. She seemed to have lost all her beauty overnight, once and for all. She was an old, haggard woman. She was barely visible on the stand; she had left her hat on and lowered it to hide her face. The crowd only had eyes for Gladys Eysenach’s Defence Counsel; he was still quite young with a scornful smirk and a beautiful mane of dark hair. He was the star of the day.

Meanwhile, she listened to the prosecution’s summation, her face hidden in her hands: ‘Until the night of 24 December 1934, the woman whom you see before you, gentlemen of the jury, was a member of life’s privileged classes. She was still beautiful, in good health, freely enjoying a considerable fortune. Nevertheless, from her early childhood she had no family, no home, no example
of morality. Ah! If only she had been fortunate enough to be born into a respectable middle-class family …’

The accused woman slowly let her hands fall on to her knees. She raised her face for a moment; it was pale and tense. She continued listening.

‘A poor woman, an ignorant woman, an abused woman would perhaps have deserved leniency. But this woman …