There were other peculiarities about their married life. His parents, as good Italians, had raised their sons in the Roman Catholic religion, and his childhood memories were filled with the sounds of church organs, with women and girls coming out of mass on Sunday mornings in silk dresses, wearing the rice powder and perfume they used only on that day.
He knew every house, every stone in the village and could still recall, coming home from school one day, having retied a shoelace with his foot on a particular milestone, but it was the church that loomed the largest, with its three stained-glass windows behind the chancel and its burning tapers. The other windows were of clear glass. The chancel windows bore the names of their donors, and one on the right, the name of Nicolas’ grandfather or great-grandfather: Despierre.
He still went to Sunday mass with Marianne; Gisèle stayed at home. She had never been baptized. Her father was a professed atheist and in his entire life had read only a few books, four or five novels by Zola.
‘I’m an ordinary working man, Tony, but I’m telling you, that Germinal …’
In other families it was the reverse: the men would escort their women to the church door before heading to the nearest café to bend their elbows until the end of the service.
‘Would you insist on claiming, Monsieur Falcone, that during that particular October you were not expecting something to happen?’
Nothing specific. It was more like the uneasiness one feels before an illness. They’d had an unusually rainy October. Tony had worn his winter outfit from dawn to dusk: jodhpurs, high laced boots, brown sheepskin jacket.
Marianne found school exciting and chattered about it at every meal.
‘You no longer recall anything about the third letter, either? Monsieur Bouvier has a better memory than you do. He says you received it on a Friday, like the others, either before or after the 20th of October.’
It had been the briefest, the most disturbing.
Soon! I love you.
‘I suppose you burned these notes and those that followed?’
No. He had torn them into little pieces that he then threw into the Orneau. Swollen by the rains, the brownish water swept along tree branches, dead animals and all sorts of debris.
‘My experience tells me that you will soon change your tune. You seem to have answered with complete candour on every other point. I would be astonished if your lawyer did not advise you to take the same attitude with regard to these letters, which would allow you to tell me about your state of mind late in October.’
It was impossible. His state of mind changed every hour. He tried not to think, and felt Gisèle watching him with curiosity – perhaps even worry. She no longer asked him, ‘What are you thinking?’ but would remark, as if tired, ‘You’re not hungry?’
He had no appetite. Three times, at dawn, he had gone to pick mushrooms in the meadow between them and the blacksmith’s, at the highest spot, near the big cherry tree. He had sold several tractors, including two to the agricultural cooperative at Virieux, which leased them to small farmers, and they had also ordered a reaper-binder for the coming summer, for the same purpose.
It had been a good year, and he would be able to pay off a significant part of what he owed on the house.
‘We’ve arrived at 31 October. What did you do that day?’
‘I went to see a customer in Vermoise, thirty-two kilometres away, and I worked for part of the day on his broken-down tractor. I was having trouble finding where the problem was and had lunch at the farm.’
‘Did you return via Triant? And stop to see your brother?’
‘It was on my way, and I usually chat with him and Lucia for a moment.’
‘You never spoke to them of your apprehensions? Or a possible – perhaps probable – change in your circumstances?’
‘What change?’
‘We’ll come back to that. You went home and had dinner. After which you watched television, one you’d bought two weeks earlier. That is what you told the police inspector from Poitiers, whose report I have in front of me. You went upstairs to bed at the same time as your wife?’
‘Of course.’
‘You were unaware of what was happening that night, less than half a kilometre away?’
‘How could I have known?’
‘You’re forgetting the letters, Falcone. You’re saying they don’t exist, true, but I am taking them into account. The next day, All Saints, you went off to church at around ten o’clock, holding your daughter’s hand.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So you went past the grocery store.’
‘The shutters were closed, as they are on Sundays and holidays.’
‘The upstairs ones as well?’
‘I did not look up.’
‘Does your indifference mean that you considered your relationship with Andrée Despierre at an end?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Or, if you did you not look up, wasn’t it because you already knew?’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Several people were standing on the pavement in front of the shop.’
‘People gather every Sunday on the square before and after high mass.’
‘When did you learn that Nicolas had died?’
‘At the beginning of the sermon. As soon as he reached the pulpit, Abbé Louvette invited the faithful to pray with him for the soul of Nicolas Despierre, who had died during the night at the age of thirty-three.’
‘What was your reaction?’
‘I was stunned.’
‘Did you notice that, after the priest had spoken, several people turned to look at you?’
‘No.’
‘I have here the testimony of the tinsmith, Pirou, who is also a local constable and who swears to this.’
‘It’s possible … I don’t see how anyone in Saint-Justin could have known.’
‘Known what?’
‘About my relations with Andrée.’
‘You went straight home from church without visiting your mother’s grave.’
‘My wife and I had agreed to go the cemetery that afternoon.’
‘Along the way, the blacksmith Didier, your closest neighbour, joined you and walked a bit of the way with you. He said, “It was certainly bound to happen eventually, but I wasn’t expecting it to come so soon. There’s one woman who’s going to be pleased!”’
‘Perhaps he did say that. I don’t remember.’
‘Perhaps you were too overwhelmed to notice?’
What could he say? Yes? No? He had run out of words. He was numb. All he remembered was holding Marianne’s little hand in its woollen glove and the rain starting up again.
The phone rang on the magistrate’s desk, interrupting the interrogation with a long conversation about someone named Martin, a jewellery store and a witness unwilling to say what he knew.
From what Tony could hear, the public prosecutor was on the other end of the line, a self-important man whom he had seen for only half an hour and who frightened him.
Diem did not frighten him; it was a much different feeling. Tony felt that it would have taken so little for them to understand each other, even become friends, but it never quite happened.
‘Please excuse me, Monsieur Falcone.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Where were we? Ah, yes: your return from high mass. I suppose you told your wife the news?’
‘My daughter did. At the front door she let go of my hand and ran in to the kitchen.’
The house had its Sunday smell, the aroma of the roast Gisèle was basting with meat juices, crouching in front of the open oven. They ate roast beef every Sunday, studded with cloves, served with peas and mashed potatoes. On Tuesdays it turned into pot-au-feu.
He hadn’t realized, at the time, how comforting these homey traditions were.
‘Do you remember what your little girl said?’
‘She was all excited and blurted out, “Mama! Important news! Nicolas is dead!”’
‘How did your wife react?’
‘She turned to me and asked, “Is it true, Tony?”’
He was lying again, leaving something out, and would not look the magistrate in the eye. Gisèle had actually gone pale and almost dropped her wooden spoon. He had been as upset as she was. It was a good moment before she had murmured, almost to herself, ‘He was the one who served me, only yesterday …’
That was something he could tell the magistrate. Although there wasn’t anything really dangerous in what followed, he preferred not to mention it in front of him. Marianne had spoken up.
‘I’ll be going to the funeral?’
‘Children don’t go to funerals.’
‘Josette did!’
‘Because it was her grandfather who died.’
Marianne had gone in to the next room to play, and that’s when Gisèle had asked, without looking at her husband, ‘What will Andrée do?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Shouldn’t you go and pay your respects?’
‘Not today. There’ll be time enough the morning of the funeral.’
‘It must have happened yesterday evening or last night …’
She hadn’t been herself for the rest of the day.
‘How about the next few days?’ asked the magistrate pointedly.
‘I was hardly ever at home.’
‘You didn’t try to find out how Nicolas had died?’
‘I did not set foot in the village.’
‘Not even to pick up your mail?’
‘I went just to the post office, no further.’
Diem consulted his file.
‘I see that, although the grocery store was closed on All Saints, it opened its doors the morning of All Souls’ Day.’
‘It’s the village custom.’
‘Who was behind the counter?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Your wife didn’t buy anything at Despierre’s that day?’
‘I don’t recall. She probably did.’
‘But she said nothing to you?’
‘No.’
What he did know was that it was raining, the trees were flailing in the wind, and Marianne was grumpy, the way she always was when bad weather kept her from playing outside.
‘I will tell you what transpired in the grocery store. For several days, Nicolas Despierre had been taciturn, on edge, which usually happened before a fit.
‘In such a case, on the orders of Dr Riquet – who has confirmed this – he would take a mild sedative.
‘On 31 October, his mother came to see him towards eight in the evening, after dinner, while Andrée was doing the dishes, and she complained that she was coming down with the flu.’
Tony had already heard about this.
‘Do you know, Monsieur Falcone, that on that evening, most unusually, Dr Riquet had gone to Niort to see his sister, who was ill, and that he would not return to Saint-Justin until the following morning?’
‘I did not.’
‘I suppose that he was also your family doctor. So you know that he almost never left the village and did not take many holidays. Late on the afternoon of the previous day, he had come to the store to see Nicolas and inform him of this brief trip.’
With his bushy beard, the doctor looked like a water spaniel and was not at all above playing a few hands of cards and downing a few drinks at the Café de la Gare.
‘Madame Despierre’s flu; Dr Riquet out of town: you see what I’m getting at? At three in the morning, your friend Andrée phoned the doctor as if she hadn’t heard of his absence. Only the maid was there, for Madame Riquet had accompanied her husband.
‘Instead of calling a doctor in Triant, she went in her dressing gown to awaken her mother-in-law in her cottage, and when the two women returned to the upstairs bedroom, Nicolas was dead.’
He listened, acutely uncomfortable, uncertain how to respond.
‘Since it was too late in any case, Madame Despierre did not see the point of summoning a doctor unfamiliar with the village, and it was only at eleven the following morning that Dr Riquet arrived at Nicolas’ bedside.
‘Given the patient’s history, after a brief examination, he signed the death certificate. Later on, Dr Riquet explained the medical reasons why the overwhelming majority of his colleagues would have done the same.
‘Nevertheless, rumours were rampant in the village the next day. You knew nothing about them?’
‘No.’
This time, he meant it. It was only much later that he had learned, to his amazement, that in Saint-Justin he and Andrée were already an item of interest.
‘You know the countryside better than I do, Monsieur Falcone. So you shouldn’t be surprised that those involved rarely learn of such rumours, and of course the authorities are the last to know.
‘It took months and further developments for tongues to begin to wag. Even then, Inspector Mani and I have had a lot of trouble obtaining viable statements.
‘With patience, we did compile this thick dossier, a copy of which has been sent to your lawyer. Maître Demarié must have discussed this with you.’
He nodded. In reality, he still did not understand. For eleven months, he and Andrée had taken every imaginable precaution to keep their affair a secret.
Not only had Tony done his best to stay away from the grocery store, but when he had to go there, he would speak to Nicolas, not his wife. If he saw Andrée among the crowd at the market in Triant, he would simply nod at her in greeting.
Aside from their encounter in September, at the roadside, they had met only in the blue room and would arrive there separately, each by a different door, leaving their respective cars at some distance from the hotel.
Neither his brother nor his sister-in-law had talked, he was sure of it. And he had equal confidence in Françoise’s discretion.
‘You two were so linked in the public’s mind that, at the funeral, everyone was watching you and feeling sorry for your wife.’
He had sensed that, and it had terrified him.
‘It’s hard to say how these rumours spring up, but, once they have, nothing can stop them. The first gossip was that Nicolas had died at a good time and that his wife must feel relieved.
‘Then someone mentioned the doctor’s absence that night, so convenient for a person hoping to rid herself of the grocer under the cover of his fits.
‘Had he been called earlier, when Nicolas was still alive, Dr Riquet would doubtless have made a different diagnosis.’
All this was true. He could say nothing in reply.
‘It was also widely remarked that at the burial you stood at the very back of the throng, as if to keep as far as possible from your mistress, and this behaviour was seen by some as a ruse.’
He wiped his face with his handkerchief, because he was in a sweat. For months he had lived without ever suspecting that people were spying on him and that everyone in Saint-Justin knew he was Andrée’s lover and was wondering what was going to happen.
‘Really, Falcone, do you think your wife could not have known what was common knowledge? That she wasn’t waiting, as they were, for what would come next?’
He shook his head, feebly, for he no longer knew quite what to think.
‘Supposing she had learned of your affair with Andrée: would she have talked to you about it?’
‘Perhaps not …’
Certainly not. It was not in her nature. For she had never mentioned other adventures that she had known about.
Not for anything in the world would he have lived through that winter again, and yet he had never felt so strongly bound to his family, to the feeling that the three of them formed a whole, a sensation of almost animal intimacy, as if he were huddled deep in a den with his mate and their offspring.
The atmosphere in the house, painted in the cheerful colours they had chosen, had become heavy, oppressive. When he had to leave on business, he did so unwillingly, conscious of some danger that might threaten whil
e he was away.
‘You did not see your mistress at all over the winter, Monsieur Falcone?’
‘I may have caught a glimpse of her at a distance. I swear that I did not speak even one word to her.’
‘You did not go to meet her again at your brother’s hotel?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Did she not, several times, put out the signal?’
‘I saw it only once. I was careful, particularly on Thursdays, to avoid Rue Neuve.’
‘So you did go by there one Thursday. When?’
‘Early in December. I was going to the station and I took the quickest route. I was startled to see the towel up in the window and wondered if it was intentional.’
‘You did not go to Triant that day?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see the Citroën go by?’
‘Only on her way home. I was in my office when I heard her honk her horn two or three times as she went by.’
‘Did your brother tell you about her visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he told you that she had gone directly to the blue room, that according to Françoise, she’d undressed there and waited for you, on the bed, for more than half an hour?’
‘Yes.’
‘What message did she give Françoise for you?’
‘That it was vital that we talk.’
‘Did Françoise describe the state she was in after waiting for that half-hour?’
‘She confessed that Andrée had frightened her.’
‘What did she mean?’
‘She couldn’t explain it.’
‘Did you talk to your brother about this?’
‘Yes. He advised me to drop the whole thing. Those were the words he used. I told him that I’d broken the affair off a long time ago. Then he said, “It may be over for you, but not for her!”’
The autumn rains had lasted until mid-December, flooding low-lying fields, followed by a serious cold snap and then, on 20 or 21 December, by snow. Marianne was beside herself with joy and rushed to the window every morning to make sure the snow hadn’t melted.
‘I want so much for it to last until Christmas!’
She had never yet been treated to a white Christmas, for earlier years had brought only rain or frost.
The Blue Room Page 7
