Nathalie found it reprehensible.
“This is wrong,” she said, poking the sofa cushion with each word.
Maman put up her hands. “I didn’t say it would be forever. For now, today, we do nothing. We need to—to think this through.”
“What’s to think about?”
Nathalie knew the answer as soon as she asked the question: wait to see if Véronique’s family came forward, if the personnel at Saint-Mathurin suspected anything, if another patient happened to see something, if Aunt Brigitte herself confessed.
“Your father and I have been worried about you. That was our primary concern, as I’m sure you can guess. Now that you’re well again, we can think about what to do.”
Nathalie stood. “Which ‘we’ do you mean? You said you think Papa guessed, but you can’t confirm it. And clearly you don’t want him to know about this conversation.”
“We,” Maman whispered, “is you and me.”
30
Nathalie didn’t have time to go to the viewing room before meeting with Christophe—she had all day to do that—and went through the side door instead. Upon knocking on the door to his office and announcing herself, someone opened the door for her. Christophe sat behind his desk, and Jules was seated across from him. Gabrielle, too. That didn’t surprise her.
But M. Patenaude opening the door certainly did.
“What’s all this?” asked Nathalie. Ostensibly to everyone, although she made eye contact with only Christophe.
“Monsieur Patenaude would like to do a feature on the three of you,” Christophe said, his voice courteous but absent the tranquility to which she was accustomed. There was an effort to his affect. “Without saying who you are or where you work. To accompany a piece on Le Rasoir.”
She didn’t believe for a moment that M. Patenaude was here for that reason. Christophe would have mentioned that yesterday, or M. Patenaude would have told her. An omission from one, perhaps. But both?
Nathalie felt like she’d entered a room where the mood hadn’t yet settled, like walking into a surprise party a minute too soon. This setting wasn’t what it seemed.
She took the empty seat between Jules and Gabrielle, acknowledging each. Did they suspect, like she did, that something was amiss?
Christophe relinquished his chair at the desk and busied himself at the cabinet. M. Patenaude took the seat, opened a leather-bound journal, and took the pen from the inkwell. After fidgeting in his chair some, he smiled at the three of them. “Shall we?”
They nodded in unison, and one by one, he asked all three of them questions about their Insightful powers. Read aloud the descriptions of their contributions related to the Le Rasoir case. Nodded in understanding. Adjusted his glasses. Asked questions to clarify responses. Wrote everything down that they said, and based on the extensiveness of his writing, much more.
Nathalie spoke to him with more formality than she usually did, in keeping with the pretense that filled the air. Jules’s tone was respectful, and his bearing was that of a deferential young man tending to a customer in a hat shop. Gabrielle was visibly uncomfortable, spinning her crucifix ring around incessantly, as well as earnest. Jules had only met M. Patenaude once or twice, and Gabrielle not at all, as far as Nathalie knew.
When they were finished, Christophe turned his attention to them once again. He thanked them for coming and went over a few procedural matters relative to his absence. “There are no new cases yet today, so we aren’t in need of your services.” He smiled like a man about to embark on travel, the first time he’d seemed like himself since she walked into the room. “I’ll see you all in three weeks.”
Gabrielle and Jules wished him well; Nathalie said she’d be back to talk as soon as she made her reporting observation. The three of them bid farewell to M. Patenaude and got up to leave.
“Oh, Jules,” said M. Patenaude, rising from the chair, “would you mind staying for a moment?”
Jules halted. Nathalie was behind him and thus unable to see his expression. When he did turn around, his face was impassive. Slowly he took his seat again.
M. Patenaude crossed the room and opened the door for Nathalie and Gabrielle. He shut it behind them as they left.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” whispered Gabrielle, eyes locked on the door.
“The interview?” Or keeping Jules behind?
“Yes, the interview,” Gabrielle said, furrowing her brow. “People don’t know the extent of our involvement with the morgue or the police. There are dozens of other anonymous Insightfuls who vaguely assist, somehow. Why would he feature us?”
Gabrielle didn’t know M. Patenaude was an Insightful, much less that he could perceive dishonesty.
Nor did Jules.
But Nathalie knew.
“To provide a story the competitors cannot, I suspect.” Nathalie’s eyes went to the office door.
“Why not assign a reporter? Or have you do it?”
She could feel the pressure of Gabrielle’s scrutiny, that deep blue-eyed gaze seeping into her.
“I don’t know. He and Monsieur Gagnon have a friendly relationship, maybe that’s why.”
“I suppose.” Gabrielle shrugged. “Why do you think they’ve kept Jules behind?”
For someone who was apathetic much of the time, Gabrielle had no small amount of interest today.
Nathalie didn’t want to raise Gabrielle’s suspicions. What if her own conclusions were wrong, and this was for a newspaper feature? What if the conversation with Jules had to do with the trouble Faux Papa was mixed up in?
“I’m not sure,” Nathalie said, feigning nonchalance. “Seems like a private matter. I have something to speak to Monsieur Gagnon about so I’m going to wait.”
Gabrielle wrung her hands together. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” Nathalie said, standing up tall. She didn’t know how well-informed Gabrielle was about the matter, and now wasn’t the time to find out. She had some eavesdropping to do, and she couldn’t do it if this discussion continued. Yet she also wanted to make it clear she wasn’t feeble in any way. “Back to normal. As normal as can be for an Insightful, I suppose. An inconvenient episode and thankfully over. How has your, uh, consequence been? The numbness in your feet?”
“Uncomfortable. Most of the time it passes in less than a day, which seems both long when I’m enduring it and short when it’s over.”
“Duration is a strange concept to Insightfuls, I think.”
Gabrielle agreed and fell silent.
The two of them stood outside the door, tethered to the moment in awkwardness. Several times Gabrielle appeared to be on the brink of saying something, finally abandoning the attempts with the excuse that the library beckoned.
“Have a good day, and I hope your recovery continues to go well.” Gabrielle took a breath. “If you’d ever like to converse about it, I’m happy to—to do that.”
Nathalie was taken aback by the glint of empathy. She’d taken the question about her well-being to be mere collegiality, perhaps even with gossipy intentions. That Gabrielle, whose favor she did so little to curry (to put it mildly), endeavored to convey such an offer impressed her. Perhaps the hostility toward Insightfuls had lessened, now that she was among them, working alongside them, using her ability for good in conjunction with them?
“Thank you, Gabrielle. I appreciate that.”
And she did. Nevertheless, she still needed her to leave. Now.
Gabrielle said goodbye and made her exit. As soon as the door shut, Nathalie’s ear was on the office door. She faced away from the exit and placed her hand on the door casually, lest someone enter the hall.
“—still don’t understand why, Jules. For fifty francs?” Christophe’s words were laced with agitation.
“I needed the money and was too scared to call his bluff. I—I didn’t think I had a choice.” Jules sounded as if he was struggling not to cry. “Am I in trouble?”
The note from last night.<
br />
But that’s not what he just said.
I needed the money. Not my mother’s husband. Or even, as much as it would have pained him to say it, my father.
Was Jules protecting him?
A pause, followed by Christophe’s voice. “His intention was to compromise the investigation, and it worked.”
His who? Was he speaking to M. Patenaude about Jules, or to both of them about someone else?
And … which investigation was compromised?
She pressed her ear to the door harder; maybe she wasn’t hearing this properly.
“Just because you’re anonymous,” M. Patenaude added, “doesn’t mean rumors wouldn’t get out that there was an Insightful lying at the morgue on purpose.”
Jules lied?
Her instinct last night had been correct. The note involved him. He was the one doing “something.” Lying. For who? About what?
His thought readings. What else?
And for the killer, or someone working for him.
Everything inside of her tightened, rope knots drawn taut, one after another after another. It couldn’t be. Not Jules. Not her bonbon.
A drawer slammed shut and Christophe spoke again. “We hope to avoid a scandal here. You’re dismissed effective immediately, and you won’t receive wages for your work the past week.” She’d never heard him this upset.
“I understand.”
Obviously the interview had been a ruse. M. Patenaude was there to see if one of them was lying. She suspected it immediately; he knew she suspected it.
“The official version I’ll tell everyone privy to such things will cite the ‘declining, unreliable abilities of an Insightful who assists the police,’” Christophe said. Some papers rustled. “The staff here will be told the same, and I’ll say you confessed this only to me in order to save face. Monsieur Patenaude will make certain that some appropriate version of the rumor finds its way into Le Petit Journal.”
Nathalie flinched at the notion of M. Patenaude having to issue that particular story.
“Fodder for the killer,” M. Patenaude added, his tone even. Unearthing lies must have given him exceptional calm in the face of them. “And you will play along—for your sake and for ours. With any luck, Le Rasoir will discover this, somehow, and accept it as truth. It’s the best we can do. Other than the Prefect of Police himself, no one outside this room will know the real reason for the cessation of your duties.”
I do.
“I’m still astounded by the poor choices you made, Jules. I took you for far more sensible than this.” Christophe’s indignation remained, and she thought she heard him pacing. “I knew something was amiss, something was different. I’d hoped it was a declining ability, not lying.”
“I recognize that what I did was wrong,” said Jules. “I’m deeply, deeply sorry.”
Silence. Three people on the other side of the door, and she couldn’t hear a thing.
What was Jules’s expression like right now? How were they positioned? What was M. Patenaude doing as Christophe spoke so firmly?
M. Patenaude coughed. Nathalie pictured him repositioning his glasses. “Monsieur Gagnon, before Jules leaves, I want to confirm that we’ve made a comprehensive assessment. I’ve identified the laundry and executioner ancestry as falsehoods, but I realize there are other cases and other opportunities to prevaricate.”
He misled them about the very avenues they explored most.
“I didn’t lie about anything else.” Jules sounded hurt.
How dare he sound hurt?
M. Patenaude continued. “Is there any other line of questioning you’d like to pursue?”
No answer came. Did Christophe nod? Shake his head? Write something down? She wanted to burst open the door and confront all of them. Why had she been sent out of the room? Jules was her beau. And morgue work was hers before it had been anyone else’s.
The anger bubbled up in her like stew in a cauldron as she waited.
He’d helped the killer.
Jules, her bonbon, her friend, and the source of so much warmth in her heart, had aided Le Rasoir. A man who beheaded people and played a revolting game with Paris, the Exposition, and everyone in the city.
Jules assisted this man by misdirecting the police? For money?
The door opened.
Jules was startled at the sight of her.
Good.
As he walked across the threshold, she slapped him with as much force as her hand could unleash.
“Liar!” She flounced into the room, forcing him to back up. Christophe and M. Patenaude were on either side of him.
“Nathalie, please, it’s not that simple—”
“Did you help the killer?”
The four of them stood there a meter apart, tension ricocheting like a bullet in a barrel.
Jules was sweating. “I didn’t help, I—”
“But you did! I heard it. How about that note? Did you lie to me about that?”
Jules heaved a sigh, refusing to make eye contact. She brought herself up to her full height.
“You haven’t heard the whole story, Nathalie.” Jules’s voice was much too composed for her liking.
“What’s there to tell? And how could I believe you if you did?”
Jules heaved another sigh. “You’re in no state to listen.”
“I’m in no state to listen?” She raised her hand to slap him again, but M. Patenaude caught it.
“Please don’t, Nathalie.”
She darted her eyes toward him. He released his grip as she lowered her hand.
“Why? He deserves it.”
M. Patenaude pointed to the exit. “Jules. Let’s go.” He took him by the elbow and escorted him out.
She followed them into the hall. “Don’t dismiss me as if I’m beneath you,” she said, voice cracking.
Nathalie felt a hand on her shoulder and shrugged it off. She followed Jules and M. Patenaude as they walked toward the exit. “This isn’t about me. This is about you!”
The hand reappeared on her shoulder, more resolute this time.
It was Christophe, of course.
She turned to him with a scowl. “And you? You bring me here under a ruse? I—” Nathalie caught herself. She was not going to cry in front of him. “I was a pawn in a game, like the stupid chess game the killer plays. Or is that a lie, too, Jules?” Nathalie called over her shoulder.
Jules didn’t answer. The door opened, then closed with a click.
She turned to Christophe again, glowering. “I thought you wanted to say goodbye. How foolish. What was I thinking?’
“I did want to say goodbye.”
Nathalie backed up. “Goodbye, then.” Her voice was as icy as she could make it. “Enjoy Switzerland. Give your betrothed my kindest regards.”
She stormed out, ignoring Christophe as he called after her. She marched over to Notre-Dame, not to pray but to be subsumed by the Gothic dimness and serenity. For almost an hour she sat in the darkest corner she could find, wishing she could vanish into the shadows and not come back.
31
The letter was propped against the apartment door when she returned from Le Petit Journal that afternoon, accompanied by a chocolate wrapped in red tulle.
Minutes later, after greeting Maman and giving her the chocolate, Nathalie sat on the bed. Stanley rubbed his chin on her shoulder as she read.
My Dearest Nathalie,
I’m sorry for what happened this morning at the morgue.
I should very much like to speak to you in person. Although it can’t undo what’s been done, I would like to explain what happened and why.
If you wish to meet, I will be at Jardin des Tuileries at six o’clock tomorrow evening. I do hope to see you then.
Warm regards,
Your Bonbon
Jardin des Tuileries. Naturally he would ask to meet there, to appeal to her sentimentality. They’d strolled it together many times, often following an afternoon at the Louvre. It was a plac
e they shared. A public space, yet somehow their space.
The day of their first outing together in February stood out among their visits to the garden. She’d thought of it many times since.
“There’s not much to see in the winter,” Nathalie had said. “The greens are browns and the leaves are sticks. Why would we want to come out here now? Besides to make footprints in this snow, which I love.”
Jules wrapped his arm around her. “May I be romantic?”
“Refined romantic or mawkish romantic?”
“Mawkish.”
She’d liked seeing this side of him—and hadn’t known it existed until recently. “Proceed.”
“I wanted to come out here so we can appreciate the cycle of life,” he said, gesturing to the open space before them. “Every time we come here, it will be greener and more lush, and we’ll think about today. In the autumn when things start to change, we’ll be reminded again of today. And on and on as the seasons progress.”
“Absolutely mawkish.” Nathalie had smiled and leaned into him, feeling the warmth between them despite the cold air.
But now there was no warmth anymore. Not after what he’d done.
Yes, she’d meet with him. If only to hear how, precisely, he would try to exonerate himself.
He would try to appeal to her emotions, of that she was certain.
Tuileries or not, she was determined to remain steadfast. He’d broken the link between them. When she met him, she’d have to remind herself that a garden was just a garden.
* * *
Nathalie left early, so much so that she scarcely got irritated by the tourists on the omnibus who were sluggish to disembark. She was convinced she’d arrive early. Yet there stood Jules, punctual as usual, inspecting the shrubbery in the garden. He was facing the opposite direction, but she nevertheless stepped behind a bush to observe him. She wanted to ascertain his temperament. His arms were crossed, fingers gripping his elbows. He kept his gaze on the ground. He suddenly seemed so young and small to her, despite being a month older and just as tall.
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