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The following document is a firsthand account of the final moments of Hamida Djandoubi, a convicted murderer executed by guillotine at Marseille’s Baumettes Prison on September 10, 1977.
The record—dated September 9—was written by Monique Mabelly, a judge appointed by the state to witness the proceedings. Djandoubi’s execution would ultimately be the last carried out in France before capital punishment was abolished in 1981.
At the time, President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing—who had publicly voiced his "deep aversion to the death penalty" prior to his election—rejected Djandoubi’s appeal for clemency. Choosing to let "justice take its course," the President allowed the execution to proceed, just as he had in two previous cases during his term: Christian Ranucci, executed on July 28, 1976 and Jérôme Carrein, executed on June 23, 1977.
Hamida Djandoubi, a Tunisian national, was sentenced to death for killing his former lover, Elisabeth Bousquet. He was executed in Marseilles' Baumettes prison in September 1977.
While the execution took place in the early hours of September 10, the "official" date of the diary entry is indeed the 9th (when the judge was notified and began her record).
The following account was written on the night of the execution by Magistrate Monique Mabelly (juge d'instruction). Mabelly later entrusted the document to her son, who eventually passed it to Robert Badinter—the former Minister of Justice who spearheaded the successful campaign to abolish the death penalty in France.
Badinter subsequently provided the document to the French newspaper Le Monde, which published it on October 9, 2013. The text below is a translation; the original French manuscript can be accessed here.
9 September 1977
Execution of Hamida Djandoubi, Tunisian citizen
At 3:00 p.m., Presiding Judge R. informed me that I had been designated to attend the execution. I feel a sense of revulsion, but I cannot escape it. I thought about it all afternoon. My role will consist of recording the prisoner’s final statements.
At 7:00 p.m., I went to the cinema with B. and B.B.; afterward, we had a bite to eat at her place and watched a late-night movie until 1:00 a.m. I went home, did a few chores, then lay down. Mr. B. L. phoned me at 3:15 a.m., as requested. I got ready. A police car came for me at 4:15 a.m. During the journey, not a word was spoken.
We arrived at the Baumettes prison in Marseille. Everyone was there. The Avocat Général [Prosecutor] arrived last. A large group formed—twenty or thirty guards, the "officials." All along the path, brown blankets had been spread on the ground to muffle the sound of our footsteps. At three points along the way, there were tables with basins of water and towels.
The cell door was opened. I heard someone say the prisoner was drowsy but not asleep. They began "preparing" him. It took a long time because he had an artificial leg that had to be fitted. We waited. No one spoke. I believe this silence, and the prisoner's apparent calm, relieved those present. No one wanted to hear cries or protests. The group reformed, and we retraced our steps. The blankets on the ground had been pushed slightly aside; we no longer sought to muffle our stride.
The group halted by one of the tables. The prisoner was seated on a chair, his hands handcuffed behind his back. A guard gave him a filtered cigarette. He began to smoke without a word. He was young, with very dark, well-groomed hair. His face was quite handsome, with regular features, though he was pallid and had dark circles under his eyes. He looked neither dull nor brutish—simply a handsome young man. As he smoked, he immediately complained that the handcuffs were too tight. A guard stepped forward and tried to loosen them. He complained again. At that moment, I noticed the executioner standing behind him with two assistants, holding a cord.
The original plan was to replace the handcuffs with the cord, but they decided to simply remove them instead. Then the executioner said something both horrible and tragic: "See, you’re free!" It sent a shiver down my spine. The prisoner continued his cigarette, which was nearly finished, and was given a second one. His hands were now free and he smoked slowly. I realized then that he was beginning to understand it was over—that there was no escape—that his life would end here, and his remaining moments would last only as long as that cigarette.
He asked for his lawyers. Mr. P. and Mr. G. stepped forward. He spoke to them in the lowest possible whisper, as the two executioner’s assistants stood right over him, as if trying to steal his last moments as a living man. He gave a piece of paper to Mr. P., who tore it up at his request, and an envelope to Mr. G. He spoke very little. One lawyer stood on either side of him; they did not speak to one another. The wait went on. He summoned the prison director to ask what would become of his belongings.
The second cigarette was finished. Fifteen minutes had already passed. A young, friendly guard approached with a bottle of rum and a glass. He asked the prisoner if he wanted a drink and poured him half a glass. The prisoner began to drink slowly. He understood that his life would end when the glass was empty. He spoke a bit more with his lawyers. He called back the guard who had served the rum and asked him to pick up the scraps of paper Mr. P. had torn and dropped. The guard knelt, gathered the pieces, and handed them back to Mr. P., who put them in his pocket.
It was at that moment that everything became blurred. This man is going to die; he knows it, and he knows he can do nothing but delay the end by a few minutes. He became almost like a child doing anything to stall bedtime—a child who knows he will be treated with indulgence and exploits it. The prisoner continued to sip his rum slowly. He called for the Imam, who came and spoke to him in Arabic. He replied with a few words in the same tongue.
The glass was nearly empty. In a final attempt, he asked for another cigarette: a Gauloise or a Gitane, because he didn't like the brand he had been given. The request was calm, almost dignified. But the executioner, growing impatient, interrupted: "We’ve already been very nice to him—very humane—we have to get this over with." The Prosecutor then intervened to refuse the cigarette, despite the prisoner repeating the request and adding, quite poignantly: "It will be the last one." A sense of awkwardness fell over the assistants. Twenty minutes had passed since the prisoner sat in that chair. Twenty minutes—so long, yet so short.
The request for that last cigarette brought back the reality, the "identity" of the time that had just elapsed. We had been patient; we had stood waiting for twenty minutes while the prisoner, seated, expressed wishes that were immediately granted. We had allowed him to be the master of that time. It was his possession. Now, a different reality emerged. That time was being taken back. The last cigarette was denied, and to "get it over with," he was hurried to finish his glass. He drank the final sip and handed the glass to the guard. Immediately, one of the assistants took a pair of scissors from his pocket and began cutting the collar of the prisoner’s blue shirt. The executioner signaled that the opening wasn't wide enough. To simplify things, the assistant made two large gashes at the shoulders and ripped away the entire top of the shirt.
Quickly, his hands were tied behind his back with the cord. He was helped up. The guards opened a door in the corridor. The guillotine appeared, directly opposite. Almost without hesitating, I followed the guards pushing the prisoner and entered the room (or was it a courtyard?) where the "machine" stood. Beside it lay an open brown wicker basket. Everything happened very fast. His body was practically hurled down, but at that moment, I turned away. Not out of fear, but out of a kind of instinctive, deep-seated modesty—I can find no other word.
I heard a dull thud. I turned back—blood, so much blood, very red blood. The body had toppled into the basket. In a second, a life had been severed. The man who had been speaking less than a minute ago was now nothing more than blue pajamas in a basket. A guard brought out a hose. The traces of a crime must be erased quickly... I felt nauseous, but I composed myself. I felt a cold indignation.
We went into the office where the Prosecutor was fussing about in a childishly busy manner to prepare the official report. D. verified every detail with care. The official report of an execution is very important!
At 5:10 a.m., I went home.
I am writing these lines now. It is 6:10 a.m.
-- Monique Mabelly (Juge d'instruction)
Translated from the French by Death Penalty News.
Robert Badinter : L'exécution de Roger Bontems
Robert Badinter (born 1928) is a French criminal lawyer, university professor, politician and activist against the death penalty, the abolition of which he successfully sponsored in Parliament in 1981.
Mr. Badinter served as Minister of Justice and then President of the Constitutional Council under President François Mitterrand.
In 1965, along with Jean-Denis Bredin, Badinter founded the law firm Badinter, Bredin et partenaires, where he practised until 1981.
Badinter's struggle against the death penalty began after Roger Bontems's execution, on 28 November 1972.
Along with Claude Buffet, Bontems had taken a prison guard and a nurse hostage during the 1971 revolt in Clairvaux Prison.
While the police were storming the building, Buffet slit the hostages' throats. Badinter was the lawyer for Bontems, and although it was established during the trial that Buffet alone was the murderer, the jury still decided to sentence both men to death.
Below is an excerpt from "L'Exécution" (The Execution), a biographical book in which Robert Badinter narrates the last minutes leading to Roger Bontems' guillotine execution:
"Nous arrivâmes. La rue de la [prison de la] Santé était barrée des deux côtés par des policiers. Nous nous arrêtâmes devant le barrage, déclinâmes nos identités, comme chez le président de la République. Il fallait exhiber nos laissez-passer, nos cartes d'avocat. Je pensais qu'il y avait là beaucoup de monde, des gendarmes, des civils, des policiers autour de la grande porte. Nous pénétrâmes comme d'habitude par la petite porte sur le côté, par où passent les avocats, les visiteurs. Quelques mètres encore, une autre porte à franchir. J'entrai dans la cour. La guillotine était là.
"Je ne m'attendais pas à la trouver tout de suite devant moi. Je m'étais imaginé qu'elle serait cachée quelque part, dans une cour retirée. Mais c'était bien elle, telle que je l'avais vue, comme chacun de nous, sur tant de vieilles photographies et d'estampes. Je fus surpris cependant par les montants, très hauts, très minces qui se découpaient sur la verrière, derrière elle. Par contraste, le corps de la machine me parut plus petit, comme un coffre assez court, Mais telle quelle, avec ses deux grands bras maigres dressés, elle exprimait si bien la mort qu'elle paraissait la mort elle-même, devenue chose matérialisée, dans cet espace nu. L'impression était encore renforcée par le dais noir, immense, tendu comme un vélum ou un chapiteau sur toute la cour. Il cachait ainsi la guillotine aux regards qui, d'en haut, auraient pu plonger sur elle. Ce dais qui dérobait tout le ciel transformait la cour en une sorte de salle immense, où la guillotine se dressait seule, comme une idole ou un autel maléfique. Les aides s’affairaient autour d'elle. Le symbole était aussi la machine. Et cet aspect mécanique, utilitaire, confondu avec la mort qu'elle exprimait si fortement, rendait la guillotine ignoble et terrible.
"Je passai à côté d'elle me refusant à ralentir ou à presser le pas, à la contempler ou à l'esquiver. Elle était bien le terme de Clairvaux. Buffet ne s'y était jamais trompé.
"Nous montâmes les marches derrière elle, qui menaient au bâtiment de l'administration. Nous gagnâmes le bureau du directeur. Il était plein de monde. (...)
"Bientôt cinq heures. Il fallait faire vite. Le directeur, courtoisement, me prit à part. Il y avait un problème. Lequel donc ? Qui allait-on exécuter en premier ? Buffet ou Bontems ? Une voix à côté de moi suggéra Buffet. Il y était préparé, il n'y aurait pas d'histoires. Je dis au directeur que j'allais en parler avec mes amis. C'était à nous de choisir. Nous nous retirâmes dans le couloir. Je posai la question. L'accord se fit aussitôt. Buffet attendait la mort. Bontems la grâce. Buffet ne pouvait fléchir. Quelle serait la réaction de Bontems ? Il fallait donc que pour lui l'attente soit la plus brève possible, que les choses aillent vite, très vite. Bontems passerait le premier. Je rapportai notre décision au directeur de la Santé. Il me regarda, parut préoccupé, mais ne dit rien. Peut-être avions-nous empiété sur la prérogative du bourreau, ou bien était-il choqué que ce soient les avocats qui décident du tour de la mort de leurs clients ? Nous étions au-delà des délicatesses. Nous avions gagné quelques minutes à vivre pour Bontems. C'était notre succès. Le seul.
"Je ne pouvais plus supporter ce bureau, ces présences. Je regagnai le couloir. L'aumônier de la Santé était assis sur une banquette, en complet gris foncé, à col rond. Je pris place à ses côtés. Il me demanda : "C'est votre première exécution ?" J'acquiesçai. C'était aussi son cas.
"Alors commença une chose extraordinaire. Philippe prit Bontems par le cou et lui parla. Ce n'était pas un discours, mais une incantation verbale où, sans cesse, revenait le mot courage. "Tu es bien, tu es formidable, tu as du courage." Je ne sais pas si Bontems comprenait tout ce que Philippe lui disait, à phrases décousues. Mais elles entraient en lui, le protégeaient, écartant la réalité. Seule importait la voix amicale, les mots familiers, cette tendresse secrète qui faisait irruption, dans cette cellule, et berçait Bontems au moment de mourir. Ce que Philippe accomplit en cet instant dépassa tout ce qu'un avocat peut espérer jamais atteindre au service de la défense. Il interdit à l'horreur d'entrer, il ferma Bontems à la peur, à l'angoisse, le protégea contre tant d'ignominie, comme une mère son petit. Et Bontems, magnétisé par cette tendresse, cette force que Philippe déversait en lui, continuait de sourire. Il avait mis ses lunettes, il enfilait sa chemise. Il voulait se rouler une cigarette, ne trouvait plus le tabac. Nous nous fouillons. Un gardien, vite, lui en tendit une déjà allumée. Maintenant, il était maître de lui, et, parce qu'il allait mourir, de nous aussi qui l'entourions.
(...)
"Le gardien-chef, celui qui avait donné la cigarette, nous fit signe. Il était temps de quitter la cellule. Nous repartîmes, à travers les couloirs, les grilles ouvertes. Des gardiens ouvraient la voie, Bontems derrière eux, Philippe le bras autour de ses épaules, lui parlant toujours à voix basse. A la rotonde, il y avait déjà du papier, un stylo, des enveloppes tout prêts sur la table. Bontems s'assit. Il hésitait, la pointe levée. (...) Ce fut bref. Il devait sentir autour de lui cette hâte d'en finir, ou bien il ne voulait pas laisser la pensée de ses parents monter en lui, à cet instant. Philippe avait toujours la main sur son épaule. Bontems se leva, lui remit la lettre. Nous reprîmes notre marche jusqu'à la prochaine station.
La scène de l'exécution : Deux hommes dans la ville, de José Giovanni (1973)
"Dans une sorte de bas-côté, l’aumônier avait dressé l'autel. Le Christ tendait ses bras vers les grilles. Deux gardiens s'étaient placés chacun d'un côté du bureau recouvert du linge sacré, un peu en retrait, étrange présence en cet instant. L'aumônier attendait Bontems. Il le mena dans le fond, derrière l'autel. Nous nous arrêtâmes. Bontems était tout proche du prêtre. Il se confessait sans doute. A présent le prêtre lui parlait. Tout était silencieux. Je me retournai. Il y avait là des gardiens, des policiers, des gendarmes et le bourreau qui avait gardé son chapeau sur la tête. (...) Tous, et sans doute moi aussi, montraient une sorte de rictus. La lumière électrique durcissait encore leurs traits. Ils avaient tous à cet instant des gueules d'assassins. Seuls le prêtre et Bontems, qui recevait l'absolution, avaient encore des visages d'hommes. Le crime avait changé de camp.
"Bontems revint vers nous. Nous reprîmes encore une fois notre marche. Devant la porte vitrée, celle qui ouvrait sur la cour, une chaise était posée. Devant elle, nous nous arrêtâmes. Le gardien-chef, qui avait donné la cigarette, s'approcha, une bouteille à la main. C'était du cognac, Bontems accepta, vida le gobelet d'un seul trait. Et puis, à partir de cet instant, tout alla très vite. Le bourreau s'approcha. Bontems lui appartenait totalement enfin. Les aides, en bleu de chauffe, entourèrent Bontems. Il fut assis sur une chaise, ligoté, redressé, on tirait sur les liens à coups secs. Philippe lui parlait, il hochait la tête. Il fut empoigné. Philippe l'étreignit, je l'embrassai à mon tour. Déjà on l'entraînait. Je tendis la main vers lui, vers cette épaule nue, mais il était happé, emporté. La porte s'ouvrit. Philippe laissa échapper une plainte, la seule. Je me détournai. Nous entendîmes le claquement sec de la lame sur le butoir. C'était fini."
-- Robert Badinter, L'Exécution, Editions Grasset, 1973. L'ouvrage de Robert Badinter est disponible en ligne ici et ici. (Ces deux liens commerciaux sont fournis à titre indicatif et gracieux.)
Source: DPN, Editor, October 14, 2013
"One is absolutely sickened, not by the crimes that the wicked have committed,
but by the punishments that the good have inflicted."
— Oscar Wilde
but by the punishments that the good have inflicted."
— Oscar Wilde
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