The jurors in the trial of Cécile Brossard for the murder of Edouard Stern have done us all a favour: they have underlined the importance of taking charge of our own emotional lives by insisting that Brossard was not simply a pawn or victim of a cruel man (she was, and he was): she carries some responsibility for allowing her emotional state to reach the stage it did, and she bears some responsibility for putting herself in the situation in which she found herself the night of the murder. Physically and emotionally. But to be clear: this is a far cry from saying “she was asking for it,” which she wasn’t, because no woman deserves to be treated as Stern treated Brossard.

The jurors have also not fallen into the facile trap of too readily seeing women as weak victims and men as powerful perpetrators of evil. In a strange way, this is a good thing for women. It’s time we moved out of that ancient mindset, for it leads to dependence, depression, wickedness and sometimes crime, including extreme crimes such as the Stern murder. I like to think that the 21st century could be the one where women discover balance – we’re not poor victims, nor are we outrageous abusers of other people, although unfortunately history is sprinkled with women who in ways resembled Edouard Stern.

“When a woman loves a man…” the Billie Holiday song goes, but where is the one about the man who loves a woman too much? Turn the story around for a moment.

You’re the juror – a man is on trial for murder

Picture this:

One of Europe’s wealthiest women falls for a man, younger than she is, less educated, far less privileged, but he adores her. She lets him, encourages him, pampers him. Then over time she begins to tire of him and to be embarrassed by his apparent weakness, his lack of social graces, his constant desire for attention, his unhappiness when he is forced to do what he sees as drudgery work to earn money.

They fight, they make up. He starts to insist on money as proof of her love. He doesn’t need it, he says, but if she really loved him she would make him independent. She teases him, calling him a gigolo, but neither of them are clear if this is a joke or a cruel way of distancing him. Their small circle of friends watch in dismay, but the couple, when together, are often so passionate that it seems petty to question this. Our lives are so mundane, they tell themselves.

It turns out he has a wife, a quiet somber person who is aware that her husband, an artist, often travels with his patron. He tells her the patron has promised a large sum of money, without providing details. She decides it is for some of his work; she has never questioned him and won’t now, she feels. Theirs is a relationship of trust. And convenience, for she long ago lost interest in having sex with him.

He becomes agitated, his behaviour erratic, she notices. One night she wakes up next to him, itching, and is startled to see he has shaved off his body hair. She knows now that he is a gigolo, the lover of a wealthy woman. She thinks of the money and makes herself a cup of tea, then goes back to bed.

The next day his lover, for he cannot think of her as a patron, laughs at him for taking her seriously when she said he was too hairy and should get rid of it. She ties him up, pours sweet sticky wine over him and then instead of the sexual activity which he expects, she throws dog hair over him, laughing uproariously. Later, he showers, they have sex and go to bed.

The wealthy woman is suddenly taken up by business affairs, has little time for him. He, in a fury, cuts off the relationship – again – for he told her he’d had enough some weeks ago, and to pacify him she’d promised him some money. He does, after all, find her desirable, she remembers, and sex with him is the adventure it has never been with the other men she’s had. She’s irritated that he’s not there when she wants him.

They go to dinner, spend a passionate night and in the morning she feels disgust as she watches him sleeping: his nails are dirty and too long. She pushes him off the bed and over to the veranda door, pushes him out, wearing next to nothing and she tells him coldly he is too disgusting to stay. She drops his clothes disdainfully out a window.

A week later they dine again, the episode behind them. He has brought her favourite flowers, a body oil she prizes and he plays her body and her senses like a violin. They can start again, be lovers the way they have been. Yes, yes, she wants to be tied up. Yes, she wants him to crawl on his knees to her, like a slave. Yes, she – but she could get all of this a lot cheaper elsewhere, and look at the paunch he’s developing – doesn’t he know she only likes pretty boys who take care of themselves?

Something snaps, suddenly, and he can’t breathe, can’t think straight, doesn’t remember later if she carries on mocking him, if he screamed at her or was silent. The murder is quick: he recalls how awful it was as a child to watch kittens dying slowly after his mother said the best way to get rid of the barn cats was to drown the little ones. He sees himself doing it as if this is a film and he is an actor. He leaves quietly.

That was ending one. Here is ending two.

You’re the juror: you choose

A week later they dine again, the episode behind them. He has brought her favourite flowers, a body oil she prizes and he plays her body and her senses like a violin. Yes, she wants to be tied up. Yes, she wants him to crawl on his knees to her, like a slave. Yes, she – he hears the abrupt coldness in her voice – yes, but she could get all of this a lot cheaper elsewhere, and look at the paunch he’s developing – doesn’t he know she only likes pretty boys who take care of themselves?

He says nothing. She looks momentarily surprised, and then she’s gone. The weapon was nearby, the murder is quick: he recalls how awful it was as a child to watch kittens dying slowly after his mother said the best way to get rid of the barn cats was to drown the little ones. He sees himself doing it as if this is a film and he is an actor. He leaves quietly. The money is still in the bank, but he’s not thinking about it right now. His wife mustn’t think he did this. The friends he’s made through the woman, they mustn’t either. He must remember to buy nail clippers tomorrow. He finds it hard to breathe. A cloak of calm settles over him.

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