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exersice 1 bac l' et l2 He was a heavy stout man with bulging bloodshot eyes. All his muscles seemed to be in his thighs. Yes, an ugly customer, one you wouldn't forget in a hurry - and that was an important point because the Crown1 proposed to call four witnesses who hadn't forgotten him, who had seen him hurrying away from the little red villa in Northwood Street. The clock had just struck two in the morning. Mrs Salmon in 15 Northwood Street had been unable to sleep; she heard a door click shut and thought it was her own gate. So she went to the window and saw Adams (that was his name) on the steps of Mrs Parker's house. He had just come out and he was wearing gloves. He had a hammer in his hand and she saw him drop it into the laurel bushes by the front gate. But before he moved away, he had looked up - at her window. The fatal instinct that tells a man when he is watched exposed him in the light of a street-lamp to her gaze - his eyes suffused with horrifying and brutal fear, like an animal's when you raise a whip. I talked afterwards to Mrs Salmon, who naturally after the astonishing verdict went in fear herself. As I imagine did all the witnesses - Henry MacDougall, who had been driving home from Benfleet late and nearly ran Adams down at the corner of Northwood Street. Adams was walking in the middle of the road looking dazed. And old Mr Wheeler, who lived next door to Mrs Parker, at No. 12, and was wakened by a noise - like a chair falling - through the thin-as-paper villa wall, and got up and looked out of the window, just as Mrs Salmon had done, saw Adams's back and, as he turned, those bulging eyes. In Laurel Avenue he had been seen by yet another witness - his luck was badly out; he might as well have committed the crime in broad daylight. "I understand," counsel2 said, "that the defence proposes to plead mistaken identity. Adams's wife will tell you that he was with her at two in the morning on February 14, but after you have heard the witnesses for the Crown and examined carefully the features of the prisoner, I do not think you will be prepared to admit the possibility of a mistake." It was all over, one would have said, but the hanging. After the formal evidence had been given by the policeman who had found the body and the surgeon who examined it, Mrs Salmon was called. She was the ideal witness, with her slight Scotch accent and her expression of honesty, care and kindness. The counsel for the Crown brought the story gently out. She spoke very firmly. There was no malice in her, and no sense of importance at standing there in the Central Criminal Court with a judge in scarlet hanging on her words and the reporters writing them down. Yes, she said, and then she had gone downstairs and rung up the police station. "And do you see the man here in court?" She looked straight at the big man in the dock, who stared hard at her with his Pekingese eyes without emotion. "Yes," she said, "there he is." "You are quite certain?" She said simply, "I couldn't be mistaken, sir." It was all as easy as that. "Thank you, Mrs Salmon." Counsel for the defence rose to cross-examine. If you had reported as many murder trials as I have, you would have known beforehand what line he would take. And I was right, up to a point. "Now, Mrs Salmon, you must remember that a man's life may depend on your evidence." "I do remember it, sir." "Is your eyesight good?" "I have never had to wear spectacles, sir." "You are a women of fifty-five?" "Fifty-six, sir." "And the man you saw was on the other side of the road?" "Yes, sir." "And it was two o'clock in the morning. You must have remarkable eyes, Mrs Salmon?" "No, sir. There was moonlight, and when the man looked up, he had the lamplight on his face." "And you have no doubt whatever that the man you saw is the prisoner?" I couldn't make out what he was at. He couldn't have expected any other answer than the one he got. "None whatever, sir. It isn't a face one forgets." Counsel took a look round the court for a moment. Then he said, "Do you mind, Mrs Salmon, examining again the people in court? No, not the prisoner. Stand up, please, Mr Adams," and there at the back of the court with thick stout body and muscular legs and a pair of bulging eyes, was the exact image of the man in the dock. He was even dressed the same - tight blue suit and striped tie. "Now think very carefully, Mrs Salmon. Can you still swear that the man you saw drop the hammer in Mrs Parker's garden was the prisoner - and not this man, who is his twin brother?" Of course she couldn't. She looked from one to the other and didn't say a word. Graham Greene, The Case for the Defence, 1939. Notes
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs Rice and her daughter for coffee. He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour. This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a gallant endeavour to behave as usual, uttering small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery. They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be French - Elsie said German - and Mrs Rice thought he might be Spanish. There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the exception of the two Polish ladies who were sitting at the extreme end, both doing fancy-work. As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer shiver of apprehension pass over him. Those still faces, those curved beaks of noses, those long claw-like hands... A page-boy approached and told Mrs Rice she was wanted. She rose and followed him. At the entrance to the hotel they saw her encounter a police officer in full uniform. Elsie caught her breath. "You don't think - anything's gone wrong?" Harold reassured her quickly. "Oh no, no, nothing of that kind." But he himself knew a sudden pang of fear. He said: "Your mother's been wonderful!" "I know, Mother is a great fighter. She'll never sit down under defeat." Elsie shivered. "But it is all horrible, isn't it?" "Now, don't dwell on it. It's all over and done with." Elsie said in a low voice: "I can't forget that - that it was I who killed him." Harold said urgently: "Don't think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that really." Her face grew a little happier. Harold added: "And anyway it's past. The past is the past. Try never to think of it again." Mrs Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw that all was well. "It gave me quite a fright," she said almost gaily. "But it was only a formality about some papers. Everything's all right, my children. We're out of the shadow. I think we might order ourselves a liqueur on the strength of it." The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses. Mrs Rice said: "To the future!" Harold smiled at Elsie and said: "To your happiness!" She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass: "And to you - to your success! I'm sure you're going to be a very great man." With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light-headed. The shadow had lifted! All was well... From the far end of the terrace the two bird-like women rose. They rolled up their work carefully. They came across the stone flags. With little bows they sat down by Mrs Rice. One of them began to speak. The other one let her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a nice smile... He looked over at Mrs Rice. She was listening to the Polish woman and though he couldn't understand a word, the expression on Mrs Rice's face was clear enough. All the old anguish and despair came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word. Presently the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went into the hotel. Harold leaned forward. He said hoarsely: "What is it?" Mrs Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair: "Those women are going to blackmail us. They heard everything last night. And now we've tried to hush it up, it makes the whole thing a thousand times worse..." Agatha Christie, The Stymphalian Birds.
exercice 3 bac NOTE Il n'y a pas de correction pour les questions en caractères rouges.
Ammu finished her schooling the same year that her father retired from his job in Delhi and moved to Ayemenem. Pappachi insisted that a college education was an unnecessary expense for a girl, so Ammu had no choice but to leave Delhi and move with them. There was very little for a young girl to do in Ayemenem other than wait for marriage proposals while she helped her mother with the housework. Since her father did not have enough money to raise a suitable dowry, no proposals came Ammu's way. Two years went by. Her eighteenth birthday came and went. Unnoticed, or at least unremarked upon by her parents. Ammu grew desperate. All day she dreamed of escaping from Ayemenem and the clutches of her ill-tempered father and bitter, long-suffering mother. She hatched several wretched little plans. Eventually, one worked. Pappachi agreed to let her spend the summer with a distant aunt who lived in Calcutta. There, at someone else's wedding reception, Ammu met her future husband. He was on vacation from his job in Assam where he worked as an assistant manager of a tea estate. His family were once-wealthy zamindars1 who had migrated to Calcutta from East Bengal after Partition. He was a small man but well-built. Pleasant-looking. He wore old-fashioned spectacles that made him look earnest and completely belied his easy-going charm and juvenile but totally disarming sense of humour. He was twenty-five and had already been working on the tea estates for six years. He hadn't been to college, which accounted for his schoolboy humour. He proposed to Ammu five days after they first met. Ammu didn't pretend to be in love with him. She just weighed the odds and accepted. She thought that anything, anyone at all, would be better than returning to Ayemenem. She wrote to her parents informing them of her decision. They didn't reply. Ammu had an elaborate Calcutta wedding. Her fatter-in-law was Chairman of the Railway Board and had a Boxing Blue from Cambridge.2 He was the Secretary of the BABA - the Bengal Amateur Boxing Association. He died before the twins were born. His cremation was attended by all the boxers in Bengal. A congregation of mourners with lantern jaws and broken noses. When Ammu and her husband moved to Assam, Ammu, beautiful, young and cheeky, became the toast of the Planters' Club. She wore backless blouses with her saris and carried a silver lamé purse on a chain. She smoked long cigarettes in a silver cigarette holder and learned to blow perfect smoke rings. Her husband turned out to be not just a heavy drinker but a full-blown alcoholic with all of an alcoholic's deviousness and tragic charm. There were things about him that Ammu never understood. Long after she left him, she never stopped wondering why he lied so outrageously when he didn't need to. Particularly when he didn't need to. In a conversation with friends he would talk about how much he loved smoked salmon when Ammu knew he hated it. Or he would come home from the Club and tell Ammu the he saw Meet Me in St Louis when they'd actually screened The Bronze Buckaroo. When she confronted him about these things, he never explained or apologized. He just giggled, exasperating Ammu to a degree she never thought herself capable of. Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things, 1997. Notes
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