“What I do every night.”
“What's that?”
“Well, I'll shut the gate. I'll lock the doors. I'll wind the clock. I'll get my cards and play a few games of Solitaire. I'll have a glass of wine. I won't think about anything. I'll go to bed. I won't sleep much. Instead I'll dream with my eyes open. I'll see people and things from the past. As for you, well, you'll go home, you'll feel miserable, you'll cry, you'll get out Jean's photograph and ask his forgiveness, you'll regret the past, fear the future. I can't say which of us will have a better night.”
She said nothing for a moment.
“I'll be going now,” she whispered with a sigh.
I walked her to the gate. She got on her bicycle and left.
LATER, COLETTE TOLD me that she hadn't gone home, but had continued on to Coudray. She was so frantic that she felt she must do something, at all costs, to try to overcome her grief. She told me that while I'd been talking to her she 'd realised that, after herself, or even before herself, the person who would benefit most from avoiding a scandal was Brigitte Declos, Marc's fiancée. She was determined to see her, to tell her what had happened and ask her advice. Did Brigitte know the details of how Jean had died? She must have guessed most of it … Anyway, it had happened over two years ago; Marc and Colette weren't seeing each other any more. She couldn't be jealous of something that had happened in the past. Her only thought would be to save the man she was going to marry in two weeks' time … Perhaps Colette wasn't overly concerned by the idea that she might cast a slight shadow over their happiness. In any case, it was in the interests of all three of them. So she went to see Brigitte, who had dined with her fiancé's family and was now at home alone.
She told Brigitte that Marc was in great danger.
Brigitte understood immediately. She went very white and asked what Colette was talking about.
“Do you know that it was Marc who killed my husband?” Colette asked harshly.
“Yes,” she replied.
“He admitted it to you, then?”
“He didn't need to tell me. I guessed what had happened the same night.”
“When she said that,” Colette told me, “I suddenly thought to myself, 'She was the one who told Jean. She knew that Marc was cheating on her with me. She thought: Her husband will break them up. She knew Jean was shy and not very strong. She never would have imagined he 'd attack Marc the way he did. She thought we 'd talk things through, that I'd be afraid of a scandal, that I'd worry about hurting my parents, all of which would lead me to give up Marc for good. That's all she wanted. Jean's death was something terrible and unexpected for her as well.' ”
At first, Brigitte tried to avoid answering Colette 's questions, but finally she confessed that she 'd written to Jean the day before he died, “spelling it out for him, I admit it,” telling him that Colette would be waiting for Marc Ohnet to spend the night with her.
“If I could have imagined … Both of us have been punished terribly. Don't be envious of me. I may have kept the man I love, but think how much we 've suffered. Think of the danger he 's in. Our courts aren't lenient on crimes of passion. He could say it was in self-defence, but who knows if they'd believe him? Perhaps they'd think he ambushed your husband to get rid of him … And even if he were acquitted, what would our life be like here, where everyone hates me and no one likes him much either? Yet everything we have is here.”
“You're not married yet,” Colette had said. “You could call it off.”
“No,” replied Brigitte, “I love him and this tragedy was mostly my fault. I won't abandon the man I love because he 's in trouble. You must convince your father not to go to the police. If nothing is official, no one will say anything. We 'll have to be brave and stand up to all the rumours, all the prying. I'm sure we can do it.”
They talked through the night, “almost as friends,” according to Colette. Both of them loved Marc and wanted to save him. Colette was also terrified for her parents and her son.
“You're right,” she said eventually, “my mother and father must know the truth. But it will be horrible for me. I can't tell them. They won't understand. They'll be devastated. Once I'm standing face to face with them, looking at their dear old honest faces, I'll be so ashamed that I won't be able to say a word.”
Brigitte had been silent for a long time. Finally, she looked at the time and said, “It's very late. Go home now. Tomorrow morning make up some excuse to leave. Stay away for a few days. I'll go and see your parents and tell them what happened. It may be easier than you think.”
“I believed my parents would prefer to hear the truth from someone else,” Colette told me. “There 's such a sense of propriety between parents and children … When I was little it embarrassed me to see my mother naked. And I remember being worried they might guess thoughts I considered shameful, but which I didn't hesitate to confide in any one of my friends or our old maid. My parents were different, they were above human weakness and I still think of them that way. I thought, 'They'll find out everything, but I'll stay away for several days. They'll have time to compose themselves. By the time I get home, they'll understand that they must never talk to me about any of it, never. They'll keep quiet. They know how to keep quiet. And then it will be as if this hideous thing had never happened.' ”
THE NEXT MORNING FRANÇOIS and Hélène came to see me. Hélène was terribly upset. Even though she had no idea of the truth, she was loath to go to the police, saying it would only cause her daughter more suffering.
But François, a true bourgeois who respected the law, believed it was his duty: “It was some prowler, some deranged drunk who must have done it. Perhaps one of the Poles who work on the farms. Whoever the culprit might be, don't forget that someone who's got away with a crime once might be tempted to rob or murder again. We would be responsible, indirectly. If innocent blood were shed again, it would be partly our fault.”
“What does Colette say about it?” I asked.
“Colette? Would you believe it, she 's gone away,” Hélène replied. “She got a lift to the station this morning and took the eight o'clock train to Nevers. She left me a note saying she didn't want to wake me but, last night, she broke the little Empire mirror that belonged to Jean and she wants to have it repaired straight away. She wrote that she 'll take advantage of her trip to go and see one of her old school friends in Nevers and be back in two or three days. Naturally, we 'll wait until she 's home before deciding what to do. Poor darling! All this business about a broken mirror is just an excuse. The truth is, she was very upset by what that boy said and wants to get away from this place that brings back so many sad memories, maybe so she wouldn't have to hear people saying Jean's name. She was like that when she was little. When her grandmother died, Colette got up and left the room every time someone mentioned the poor woman. One day, I asked her why and she said, 'I can't help crying and I don't want everyone to see me cry.' ”
She 's stalling, I thought to myself. Maybe she 'll write to them from Nevers to tell them the truth, to avoid the face-to-face confession she 's dreading so much.
I also thought she might have gone to see a priest. Later on I found out she 'd been seeing one for some time and that he 'd advised her to tell her family what had happened, adding that it was appropriate penance for her sin. But her fear of causing her beloved parents suffering had forced her to remain silent. Actually, I imagined all sorts of reasons why Colette might have gone away, but of course I never guessed that she had involved Brigitte Declos.
“I think Hélène is right,” I said to François. “It will be very painful for Colette to have the police prying into her private life with her husband.”
“Good Lord, those poor children had nothing to hide.”
“As for the killer (if there really was a killer, if that lad wasn't lying), he surely would have left the area a long time ago.”
But François just shook his head. “That doesn't mean he won't commit another crime when he 's drunk or out of money. If h
e kills someone in another place, how will it make me less responsible? It will be on my conscience whether it's in the Saône-et-Loire, the Lot-et-Garonne, the North or the Midi.” He looked at his wife. “I don't really understand what there is to discuss. You surprise me, Hélène. You have such a sense of right and wrong, how can you of all people not feel how degrading it would be to cover up a crime simply because it might upset us?”
“Not us, François, our daughter.”
“Doing our duty has nothing to do with our love for our child,” François replied softly. “But what 's the point of going on about it? When Colette gets back, we 'll talk it through, and I'm sure she 'll come round to my way of thinking.”
It was late morning and they needed to get home. They'd walked to Mont-Tharaud and asked if I wanted to walk back with them. The whole way we avoided the subject of children by tacit agreement, but it was obvious that all they could think about was the tragedy and the dramatic events of the previous day.
Hélène invited me to stay for lunch. I accepted. We 'd just finished eating when someone rang the bell. The maid came in and said it was Madame Brigitte Declos.
Hélène went very pale. As for François, he seemed hsurprised, but he told the maid to bring her into the little study where we had come to drink our coffee; we stood up to greet her.
The study is a charming little room, full of books, with two large armchairs next to the fireplace. For more than twenty years my cousins have spent their peaceful evenings in this room, he sitting in one of the armchairs reading a book, she in the other, doing some embroidery; the clock between them, always ticking, slowly, calmly—the very picture of conjugal happiness.
Brigitte came in and looked around with curiosity: she 'd never seen this room, having visited my cousins' house just once, the day of Colette 's wedding. Then, she 'd only gone as far as the sitting room, which is gloomy and formal. Here, everything was a testament to happiness and deep mutual love. People may not tell the truth, but flowers, books, portraits, lamps—the gentle, aged look of such things—reveal more than people 's faces. There was a time when I often looked carefully at all these objects and thought, “They make each other happy. It's as if the past didn't exist. They're happy and they love each other.” Later on it was so obvious that I stopped thinking about it and, besides, it didn't matter to me any more.
Brigitte looked pale and thin; she was less … wild and sensual, if I can put it that way, more like a mature woman. What I mean is she 'd lost that arrogant confidence that comes with happiness; she seemed worried and there was something else in her expression as she glanced around her, a kind of defiance, resentment and, at the same time, curiosity and anguish. She refused the cup of coffee that Hélène automatically offered her.
“I have come to beg you, Monsieur Erard,” she said, her voice quiet and shaking a little, “not to do what you plan, not to go to the police about your son-in-law's death. This is very serious. If the truth came out, it would cause even more problems.”
“More problems? For whom?”
“For you.”
“Do you know who killed Jean?”
“Yes. It was Marc Ohnet. My fiancé.”
François stood up and began to pace nervously about the room. Hélène didn't utter a word. Brigitte waited for a moment, then, seeing that no one was saying anything, continued, “We 're going to be married in a few days. We love each other. It would cause a terrible scandal that would destroy our lives and wouldn't bring back your poor son-in-law.”
“But, Madame,” exclaimed François, “do you realise what you're saying? … Whether the murderer is a tramp, some vagabond or Marc Ohnet, your fiancé, doesn't change the fact that a crime has been committed and that the man responsible must be punished. Are you actually saying that you're begging me to do this for the sake of your happiness, you who've destroyed my daughter's happiness? These two men were fighting over you, I suppose? Were they both courting you, perhaps?”
François is a good man but he does have one fault: he keeps to himself for the most part and when he 's very upset he expresses himself “like a book,” as they say around here. I don't know why, but I'd never been struck by it as much as today. I couldn't help smiling and Brigitte smiled too: there was not much kindness in her smile.
“Monsieur Erard, I swear to you that those two men never fought over me and that Jean Dorin never courted me. You do him an injustice. He was faithful to his wife; and as for me, I wouldn't have given him a second look. I've been Marc Ohnet's mistress for four years. I love him and have never loved anyone else.”
She looked at him with an air of bravado that infuriated François.
“Aren't you ashamed of yourself?”
“Ashamed? Why?”
“Because you've done something wrong,” he replied coldly. “Your husband may have been old, but it was your duty to respect him. It is revolting to have been unfaithful to a man who took you in when you had nothing, who spoiled you and loved you, and who left you his fortune. You took his money and bought yourself a young lover …”
“This has nothing to do with money.”
“It always has to do with money, Madame. I'm an old man and you're a child. Of course, what you do is none of my business, but since you think it appropriate to confide in me, perhaps you will allow me to explain this hideous thing you can't see. You cheated on your husband in a vile manner. He leaves you a fortune. You and your fiancé will live off that fortune. A fine pair! And you'll have the memory of a crime … since you're telling me that your miserable lover killed our poor Jean. What a wonderful future you'll have together, Madame. You're young now. All you can see is what gives you pleasure. Think of what it will be like for the two of you when you're old.”
“We 'll be as happy as you are,” she said quietly.
“No, you won't.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Her voice sounded so strange that Hélène made a movement towards her and let out a sort of plaintive cry.
Brigitte seemed to hesitate, then continued, “Your morals are beyond reproach,” she said. “Yet, wasn't Madame Erard a widow when you married her?”
“What are you getting at? How dare you compare yourself with my wife?”
“I mean no offence,” she replied in the same quiet, steady tone, “I'm just asking … Madame Erard was married before, like me, to an old, sick husband. She was faithful to him, but I'd like her to tell me whether it was always easy or pleasant to remain faithful.”
“I didn't love my first husband, it's true,” said Hélène, “but I didn't marry him against my will. So I had no right to complain and neither do you …”
“There are many things that influence our will,” Brigitte said bitterly, “poverty, for example, or being abandoned …”
“Being abandoned, oh …”
“Yes, exactly. Do you think I wasn't abandoned?”
“But Mademoiselle Cécile …”
“Mademoiselle Cécile did everything she could for me: she took the place of my mother. Still, my mother never gave me a second thought. When I was left all alone she made no attempt to contact me. So the first man who came along … Do you really think that a young woman of twenty willingly marries an old farmer of sixty? A harsh, stingy old man? Willingly? You call that willingly? And your own daughter, your legitimate daughter” (she emphasised the word) “Colette really did marry Jean Dorin willingly, but that didn't stop her becoming Marc Ohnet's mistress. Ask her about it; she 'll tell you how she allowed Marc to visit her at night, how her husband found out and how he died.”
Then she told us what had happened. François and Hélène listened in stunned silence. Tears were streaming down Hélène 's face.
“Are you crying because of your daughter?” Brigitte asked. “No need to worry. She 'll forget, things like this always get forgotten. It's easy to live with the memory of a bad deed, as you put it, or even a crime. You've had a good life,” she added, turning towards Hélène.
�
�A crime …” the poor woman protested softly.
“I call it a crime to have a child and abandon it. At any rate that's worse than cheating on an old husband you don't love. What do you think, Monsieur Erard?”
“What do you mean?”
Hélène was trembling but managed to compose herself. She gestured to Brigitte to be silent. Then she turned towards her husband. “Since you must know, I prefer you hear it from me. This child has the right to speak as she does: I had a lover before we were married” (her wrinkled face blushed) “an affair that lasted only a few weeks. I had a baby girl. I didn't want to tell you what had happened or force the child on you. But I didn't want to abandon her either. My half-sister, Cécile, was free and alone; she took care of Brigitte. I thought she was happy. Little by little …”
She fell silent.
“Little by little, you forgot all about me,” said Brigitte. “But I've always known … One day you came to Coudray with your husband and Colette, who was still very young. She was crying; she wanted a drink. You sat her on your lap; you kissed her. She had such a pretty little dress and a gold necklace … And I … I was so jealous. You didn't even look at me …”
“I didn't dare. I was so afraid I'd give myself away…”
“That 's not true,” said Brigitte. “You had simply forgotten all about me. But I always knew … Cécile told me. She hated you, your sister Cécile. She hated you almost without realising it. You were younger, prettier, happier than she was. You have been happy. You know that 's true. Well, let me live as you have done. Don't be too harsh toward Colette, who thinks you're a saint, who'd rather die than let you see her for who she really is. As for me, well, I'm not as particular. You won't go to the police, will you, Monsieur Erard? These are family matters and must be kept to ourselves.”
She waited for a reply, but none came. She got up, carefully picked up her handbag and gloves, walked over to the mirror and adjusted her hat. Just then the maid came in to take away the coffee cups, full of attentiveness and curiosity. Hélène accompanied the young woman through the garden to the gate.
Fire in the Blood Page 7
