He switched off the television and got up to push the button on his kettle. An hour later, he was still on his bed, with a glass full of now stone-cold brown liquid in the palm of his paw. He stirred the coffee with his spoon, and let it drip at the edge of the glass, then put it in his mouth, between his tongue and his palate. “This coffee is stale,” he thought. “This coffee has no more taste.” Then, slowly, he pushed the spoon down his throat, putting his fingers between his teeth to help the metal stem slide farther down. He felt the spoon go down his larynx, which contracted from the pain. He rolled to the foot of his bed, his body shaking with violent jolts. He grabbed the foot of the bed to stop himself from moving and making too much noise. Already, his lungs were short of air.
He’d taken refuge in the jar, with the door shut, waiting. Soon afterward, however, the rows of chairs outside the glass confessional filled with candidates for absolution. One hour. That’s how long he’d have to wait before he could share his terrible suspicion, and confide in a low voice that which would certainly not set him free, but would, he believed, be for the best. He looked at his watch. Rather than doing nothing, which would end up attracting attention, he decided—before making his own confession—to let others confess. He almost laughed at the thought of these silly sins, so insignificant in comparison to what he was about to tell. A fault that, albeit not his own but one he had to carry inside him, would be enough to fill the entire cathedral with darkness.
Finally, after granting three absolutions, he saw him through the glass, approaching among the tourists, overtaking the worshippers who were waiting their turn to off-load their trespasses. His step was a little heavier, a little more tired than usual, but he showed no hesitation when it came to pulling open the glass door that separated him from the diminutive confessor. He sat down opposite him, took out a fresh pack of cigarettes, tore off the cellophane, and lit one without saying a word. Father Kern stiffened, and the man took the time to smoke at least half of it, looking at the stained glass windows toward which the smoke was rising, then stubbed it out on the wooden table where there were, as with every time Father Kern heard confessions, a Bible and two dictionaries. “So you’ve conducted your little investigation, haven’t you, François?”
“That’s right, Monsignor. Who told you?”
The rector lowered his eyes and looked at the back of his hands. Then he pulled out a radio from inside his jacket, a model like the one Gérard, Mourad, and all the other guards wore at their belts. He placed it on the table. “The cathedral definitely has eyes, François. The cameras help it to see. But it also has ears. I’ve had this walkie-talkie in the presbytery for ages. People don’t realize it. I can hear conversations and know everything that goes on here. Usually, it’s messages of little interest. A guard calling another to point out a pretty girl. A sacristan making note of the fact that a machine has broken down, or that a concert notice is out of date. It’s all so sad, so monotonous, you could weep. But earlier on, I heard through the device a rather unusual request, a request put out by the sacristan on duty: that a priest was asking a guard to show him how the panel works in the control room. That’s when I realized. I realized you wanted to stick your nose in the footage of the Mass, the one on Assumption Sunday. And I knew that you, François, would see what nobody among the thousands of worshippers who were present that evening saw.”
The radio crackled. As it happened, Gérard was asking Mourad to help with a jammed medal dispenser.
The rector frowned. “We really should get them repaired. I wonder what that’s going to cost us? These damned machines are on their last legs.” Monsignor de Bracy turned the dial of the walkie-talkie. The voices in the device diminished then stopped completely. “I think we can turn this off now. We won’t be needing it for a little while.” The old man remained silent, as though echoing the walkie-talkie that had just fallen quiet. “Will you hear my confession, François? One old priest to another and, I hope, one friend to another? How many years has it been since we’ve seen each other every summer? Will you hear what I have to say?”
Father Kern nodded.
Monsignor de Bracy let out a deep sigh, as though exhausted in advance by the confession he was about to make. “I confess before almighty God, I admit before my fellow men that I have sinned in thought, and word, and deed, and through negligence, yes, I have truly sinned.” He looked like he was about to continue but suddenly hesitated. “What precisely do you know, François? What have you discovered exactly?”
Kern put his hand on the Bible and spent awhile stroking the edge with his thumb. When he’d seen the rector come into the confessional, he’d suspected that his confidences would be spontaneous in nothing but appearance. Cornered, the prelate was here to sound out the diminutive priest and discover what he knew. As for Father Kern, he was aware that the jigsaw puzzle he was trying to put together was still very incomplete. A duel was about to start between the two men of God. It was a matter of who would confess to the other first.
“Monsignor, I know that you spoke to Luna Hamache during Mass last Sunday. You said something to her at the foot of the podium, while holding the chalice, and the words that came out of your mouth were not ‘The body of Christ.’ She replied before taking the host between her lips, and what she said wasn’t ‘Amen’ either.”
“And you saw that on the KTO video?”
“That’s right, Monsignor.”
“Yes, I admit we exchanged a few words. Wasn’t I supposed to ask after her health? That girl had been attacked by a madman two hours earlier. Wasn’t it my duty to—”
“That’s not true, Monsignor. You spoke to her to make an appointment somewhere.”
The rector’s eyes darted around, as though he was looking inside himself for an escape route. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
Kern hesitated slightly, remembering the previous night, and the sin of the flesh he’d been guilty of, a high price to pay in exchange for a few scraps of useless information. He thought of Nadia’s skin, of her perfume, of the tears he’d shed on her body. Who was he to judge this other priest who sat before him? Who was he in comparison to this old man who’d devoted his entire life to the Church? Hadn’t he, too, in a way, succumbed to the temptation of a woman’s body? Then he thought of Luna. He remembered her body lying on the cathedral floor. He remembered her funeral, her coffin laid at the bottom of the grave, her father’s distress, and he immediately looked deep into the rector’s eyes.
“Luna Hamache wasn’t just a regular student. She was also an occasional prostitute who entertained mature clients in an apartment on Rue Blanche, a studio that a university friend— also a part-time prostitute—would lend her. You were a regular client of hers, Monsignor.”
Bracy had frozen on his chair. “Me? That’s absurd? Who told you—”
“Nadia, her friend and accomplice, told me everything last night. And she will repeat it to anyone who asks, including the law.”
A long silence ensued, and Kern felt all of a sudden as though he had in front of him a rusty old alarm clock that wasn’t ticking anymore. There was nothing else left to do but take it apart completely, and for that he was ready to lie again if necessary.
“Isn’t it time you confessed to God, Monsignor? Admit to Him your faults, your doubts, and your fears?”
The rector now looked terribly old. The lines around his eyes appeared deeper and his lips were quivering slightly. Even his body, his dignified bearing, almost military stiff, appeared to weaken as time went by. “I have sinned terribly, François, I admit it. By going to see that girl I gave in to my urges, it’s true. It so happened that Luna fulfilled my deepest, most hidden, and also most repressed fantasies. With age, I felt I lost my internal battle against debauchery and lust—a lifelong battle.”
“What was Luna Hamache doing in the cathedral on Sunday?”
“She came to blackmail me, François. There’s no other word for it. I stupidly gave an interview ten days ago. It was on the day o
f that outrageous attack by homosexual extremists against the sentiments expressed by the Holy Father. Do you remember, François? They tried to display a banner in the middle of Mass. Do you remember now? Naturally, they were helped by the presence of TV cameras, so they came to stage their little publicity stunt. Anyway, I had to intervene, to show myself to the media in order to bear witness and provide our version of the events. It was a bad move on my part. The report was broadcast on the evening news. I was on the air for less than ten seconds, with my name and job title at the bottom of the screen, but that’s all it took. The damage was done.”
“What damage, Monsignor?”
“The girl, François, the girl saw me on TV. Naturally, I hadn’t told her who I was. In fact, she never asked. For her, I was a kind of grandfather, an insignificant pensioner, I’m sure like other clients of hers. The day after I’d been on television, I saw her in the cathedral, early in the morning, sitting in front of the Virgin of the Pillar. She was waiting for me in order to demand a large sum. She needed money. She wanted to quit prostitution. She threatened to reveal everything, to tell everything to the press. Can you imagine the scandal for the cathedral?”
“What did you say to her?”
“I panicked. I sent her away and told her not to bother me anymore. I said she had no proof. I threatened to call the police.”
“And what did she say?”‘
“Nothing. She just looked at me and left. I waited for her the following day, and the day after that, but she didn’t come back.”
“Until last Sunday.”
“I’d convinced myself she’d given up. When I saw her walking beside the procession that day, dressed so daringly, so provocatively, I realized that she’d stop at nothing. That, sooner or later, she’d carry out her threats. You were there, you saw her, too.”
“Everybody saw her, Monsignor.”
“We’re agreed on that. She wasn’t here to honor the Virgin. She was here for me. To blackmail me. To harm me and, through me, the cathedral. I asked Mourad to move her away from the procession, but he didn’t have the time to do it.”
“One could say that young Thibault did it for you, right?”
“I saw him as a sign. You see, he looked like an angel, so pure, so pale, so blond. I heard him talk to that girl, tell her to follow the example of the Virgin, and get back her virginity. I saw him grab her by the hair, slap her, and I thought, ‘Thank you, Mary, you have not abandoned me.’”
“Except that Luna came back for the evening Mass.”
“Yes, in the front row. Her legs crossed so high, so provocatively. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her, too. Every priest on the podium ogled her. They all did at some point or other during the Mass. During the entire service she didn’t take her eyes off me. She even dared come to take Communion, the little whore. At that moment, I knew. I knew I had to act.”
“To act, Monsignor?”
“It’s true, François, you’re right. It was then that I gave her an appointment, it was during Communion. I said I had her money, that I wanted to give it to her discreetly, later that evening. I gave her the code to the gate in Rue du Cloître. And then ...”
“And then?”
“And then I gave her Communion. I placed the host in her mouth. I brushed her lips with my fingers. I smelled her perfume. I looked at the hollow of her neck. There. That’s all, François.”
Monsignor de Bracy lowered his head, as a sign that he had finished talking.
“No, that’s not all, Monsignor. You must also confess what happened afterward, what happened two hours later.”
The old man appeared to search his memory, as though not fully understanding what Father Kern was alluding to.
“You waited for Mass to finish, for the cathedral to close, for the auxiliary bishop to leave, for the other priests to leave, and for the sacristan to leave. Then the cathedral opened again and the film screening started inside. However, the back of the cathedral remained closed to the public. You were free to act. You took the keys from the sacristy and went to the little door that leads to the garden, behind the apse. Luna turned up at the appointed time, didn’t she?”
“At ten o’clock, yes. I took her to the treasury. After Mass, the silver statue of the Virgin had been put back there. The doors had been locked and I knew that the guard wouldn’t do his evening rounds there. There was no risk of anybody disturbing us.”
“And then? What happened then?”
“A tragedy. A ghastly accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told her I didn’t have the money. That she’d have to wait two or three more days. I was speaking off the top of my head, you understand. I didn’t know what I was doing. She started to threaten me, to try and hit me, and began screaming. God, François, I beg you, believe me, I was only trying to keep her quiet. You see, on the other side of the screen, in the cathedral nave, there were thousands of people watching the movie. I put my hands over her mouth but she fought back like a woman possessed, like the devil was inside her. So I squeezed a little harder to make her quiet, then again a little harder, until she fell at my feet, unconscious. I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t breathe. I’d killed her, you see, but who’d believe it had been an accident?”
“Who indeed?”
“I ran away. I panicked. I left her there, in the treasury, at the foot of the silver statue of the Virgin Mary. I went back to my apartment in the presbytery. I wept. For a long time. I prayed to the Lord. Also for a long time. Late into the night. I tried to see things clearly. Should I give myself up? Should I confess to a terrible accident in which, after all, that girl had her share of responsibility? It would mean such a scandal for the cathedral. Can you imagine that, François, it would have meant victory for the enemies of the faith. A terrible blow to Notre Dame. You do understand, François, don’t you?”
“I understand very well, Monsignor.”
“What I did afterwards is something I’m not proud of. I remembered the afternoon incident, the blond angel, what he’d shouted to that girl about the Blessed Virgin and virginity. So, in the middle of the night, I came back down. I went through the janitor’s room without making a sound. I heard him snoring. I took the keys. I left the presbytery and went back into the treasury. She was still there, she hadn’t moved. Naturally, there was no way of disposing of the body outside. In the middle of summer, on the embankment of the Seine, in the square, all around, there are young people who spend all night talking, listening to their damned music, strumming their guitars till dawn. You can never get any sleep. My only hope was to sacrifice the blond boy. Make him bear the responsibility for this death. So I took the dead girl in my arms and carried her body to the Chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. There, I took a candle that was still burning, lifted her skirt, and did what I had to do. I gave her back her virginity with a few drops of wax. Finally, I sat her on the bench, facing the rising sun, and left her there while waiting for the cathedral to open.”
“And did you think you’d get away with it, Monsignor?”
The rector seemed surprised. “But I did get away with it, François. The police were completely fooled. As for the law, it just took a phone call to the Minister for him to understand.”
“For him to understand what, exactly? What did you tell him, for him to bury the case so quickly?”
“Not much, actually. I called him as soon as the body was found. He and I didn’t have to spell things out. I made it clear to him that the priority was to restore calm in our cathedral. Find a culprit as soon as possible. Avoid making ripples. Put an end to the media frenzy that was sure to follow. Already, reporters were circling around the towers of Notre Dame like vultures.”
“You didn’t tell him anything about your own involvement?”
“Why would I have? Of course not.”
“Was it he who assigned the case to Claire Kauffmann?”
“A young, inexperienced magistrate, with, in addition, a reputation fo
r having relationship issues with men. She took on the case like a personal crusade. And then there was also a stroke of luck: Captain Landard was on duty that day. The worst cop in Paris. Less than twenty-four hours later, they’d caught their suspect. The next day, he was dead. The little whore wasn’t buried yet, and the case had already been filed away.”
“So the Minister contributed to a miscarriage of justice.”
“Yes, but he acted in good faith, François. You and I are the only ones to know the truth. The Minister is, first and foremost, a servant of God. Serving the country must always be a secondary duty.”
“You pulled it off, Monsignor. You can be pleased with yourself.”
“Don’t take that tone. I acted first and foremost in the interests of the cathedral. The initial mistake was mine, I admit. But who could have foreseen this abominable attempt at blackmail?”
“In other words, you consider yourself a victim.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say that the most important thing has been protected: the reputation of this church. For once, the law has swayed in our favor. And the media are slowly calming down. That just leaves you, François, and I know I can count on your discretion.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsignor?”
“You understand me perfectly well. You, too, are God’s soldier, you and I are fighting on the same side. Now give me your absolution and let’s not mention this sordid business again.”
“How can you possibly expect me to keep what we’ve just said to each other a secret?”
“You forget where we are, François. What I’ve just admitted to, I have done within the frame of confession. I have confided in you in order to submit myself to God’s judgment and ask His forgiveness. You are neither a magistrate nor a police officer. You’re a priest—or do I need to remind you? To betray what has now become our secret would be tantamount to betraying your vows. Come on, Father, give me the absolution.”
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