Sacred Ends

by Lisa Appignanesi

  But as if the word ‘whore’ had given her a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she now arched a knee and jabbed it into his groin. He recoiled. Swiftly, she slid out from beneath him and made a lunge towards her little boudoir. She slammed the door hard, turned the key that happily sat in the lock, and pulled a chair against the knob for good measure.

  She was breathing hard. She felt sullied. Dirty with a dirt water wouldn’t wash away.

  From next door, she heard Olivier muttering as if in some trance. ‘Man and wife … I now proclaim us man and wife.’

  When the bedroom door closed after an eternity, she still waited a few moments longer, then rushed out to lock that, too. She determined her door would now stay locked for ever.

  SEVENTEEN

  Martine was gone. Jeanne, the maid, announced it in a frightened little voice when Marguerite finally permitted her to come in halfway through the morning.

  She had wanted to see no one. Had wanted time to reassemble herself. Had wanted to run through the grounds, shake everything off, flail her arms and scream and fling herself down on the cold earth. Had been thinking that now more than ever she must extricate herself from Olivier, from this prison of marriage, from this vulture in black who called himself a priest and was a tyrant, from this sense of duty which always and ever coiled itself round her. And from this whole business of adopting the babe. Somewhere during the long night she had also promised herself that she would concentrate all her energies on locating Gabriel’s mother.

  She had certainly wanted to hear nothing like this.

  ‘Yes, Madame. She wasn’t in her room this morning.’

  The tears she hadn’t yet properly shed stung at Marguerite’s eyes. Visions of disaster. Martine gone. Poor, frail Martine. She had failed her. Her too. Like Olympe.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘No one has seen her, Madame. No one can find her. Not even in the coach house or the stables. Inspector Durand went himself to look.’

  ‘I see. And Monsieur le Comte?’

  ‘I don’t believe he’s up yet. Nor have the other guests come down. Though coffee has been brought to them.’

  Marguerite hastened through her morning toilette. Her eyes were bruised, her face shadowed. There were reddenings on her cheek, where Olivier had slapped her. Jeanne said nothing and repaired the damage as best she could. Marguerite fixed her thoughts on Martine. Had she paid too little heed to the girl’s troubled state last night? Or was it something worse? Had someone in their midst, perhaps the very person who had acted against Yvette, now targeted her sister?

  Dire images of near ones who had taken their own lives flooded her mind. Women. Always women. They seemed so little attached to life when despair took hold of them. Like she felt today. Had Martine, too, become infected by despair – a guilty despair at ever again finding the sister whose fate she had sealed by changing places with her?

  Marguerite hadn’t been able to help. The very task she had set herself on leaving Paris was the one she had failed at. Ever darker thoughts fed on her sombre mood and invigorated shadows from the past. They brought Martine into the tragic circle of Olympe and her sister. A torpor fell over her, like a paralysis. She had to force each gesture. With an effort, she also forced an act of mental gymnastics. She imagined Martine escaping, not in danger, but simply running away from a situation that made her miserable, running away because for all her promises Marguerite had brought her no closer to her sister and had failed to give her enough time last night. Was this possible? A pure escape from everything that tied her down. An act composed in equal parts of adolescent peevishness and rebellion.

  As she went downstairs, Marguerite admitted to herself that this was forcing a sunny gloss on things. The points of her conversation with Martine the previous evening came back to her, the girl’s fear, her tears, her despair. Like a premonition of her own. But Martine’s had been abetted by her belief in priestly power. Did Marguerite have an equal investment in the institution of marriage? No, no. She rebelled against the thought.

  The house wore no trace of her mood. Everything was alive with morning bustle. Servants came and went. Post was delivered. Furniture moved. Rooms took on their usual aspect. A buffet of rolls and brioche and conserves, of cold meats and mustards and fruit had been laid out for the guests in the breakfast room. But it was downstairs in the kitchen that she found Inspector Durand. He was sitting at a corner of the long wooden table with one of the footmen who had been brought in especially for last night’s gathering.

  Freshly shaven and pink-cheeked, the inspector was making some notes in his little pad. The writing was minuscule and Marguerite wondered once more whether the note-taking was done more for effect than for any mnemonic purposes.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  Durand bowed and appraised her.

  ‘I trust you have slept well,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

  ‘The country air does wonders … though I have had a lot to think about. As you have had, I see.’

  ‘And now this news of Martine…’

  ‘Yes. We have just learned from Jacques, here, who was at the door, that the young woman was indeed seen leaving the house. Well wrapped she was, too. And alone.’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ Jacques intervened, his fear that he would be blamed evident in his tumbling speech. ‘I thought nothing of it. Nothing. The young lady said she wanted a little air. A walk. She was well wrapped-up for it. So I saw no harm. None at all. The girls are always wanting a breather. A look at the stars. They like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did she have a look of distress about her?’

  ‘No, Madame. At least I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you never saw her come back in?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t. But that’s not to say she didn’t.’

  ‘Did anyone follow her?’

  ‘People were starting to leave by then. It got very busy. There were carriages to bring forwards. Ladies to help. Old gentleman. One of them all but needed to be carried. I…’

  ‘It’s all right, Jacques. Did you see what direction she walked in?’

  ‘I told the inspector, Ma’am. I told him. Straight down the drive she went. I didn’t pay much attention, though, once she had crossed the threshold.’

  Celeste, the wet nurse, had come into the kitchen. She was carrying the babe and crooning to him softly.

  Of course, Marguerite slapped herself mentally. Celeste was closer to Martine than anyone here, apart from herself. They had spent the most time together. She called the woman over and questioned her.

  ‘Oh yes, Madame, Martine came in to see us last night. The first time in her beautiful gown. How lovely she looked. And the second time before she went out for a breath of air, to say goodnight to us. She was a little upset, I thought.’

  ‘Had she changed?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘Well she wasn’t in no ball gown when I saw her,’ Jacques intervened. ‘She had a hat on. And gloves. And a warm blue jacket, I think, and some dark skirt.’

  ‘So she changed deliberately…’ Marguerite said.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be back, Madame,’ Celeste erupted. ‘She wouldn’t leave us without saying a proper goodbye.’

  ‘Yes, this is a good house.’

  ‘Thank you, Jacques. Tell me, Celeste, did Martine confess any likings for any particular man to you? An old sweetheart, perhaps?’

  ‘Ah no, Madame. Nothing like that. She said Gabriel was her sweetheart.’ The woman giggled.

  Marguerite met Durand’s eyes at last.

  ‘Inspector, perhaps one of the footmen can save us some time by running a message to the prefecture in Montoire about all this … and indeed in Vendôme, where Martine’s friends must also be contacted. On balance, I think Celeste is right. Even if Martine went out for a walk, I don’t think she would leave us of her own free will without saying goodbye or leaving word.’

  The inspector nodded, and Marguerite called for pen and pap
er. While they waited, she quickly looked through the letters that she had been handed.

  ‘Ah, Inspector, there’s something here that may concern you.’ She tore open an envelope that bore a crest, read quickly and passed it to Durand.

  ‘So it seems it’s not only a question of wicked tongues and false insinuation. Your deputy really does have a long-standing taste for the very young.’

  Durand tapped his fingers on the table as he read. When he came to the end, he turned grim eyes on her.

  ‘What next? ‘Do you know anyone who can lean on the man and get him to resign quickly and quietly?’

  ‘Give me a few days, Inspector. I have some ideas. But right now, we must focus on Martine.’

  ‘My own feeling matches yours. I sense that Martine might have gone for a walk of her own accord, but would certainly have come back unless she was prevented by someone from doing so. She’s a timid girl. And I suspect rather suggestible.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid my own suspicions fall on that giant of a youth whom I found hanging about the windows and spying on you when I first arrived. He manages to appear out of nowhere and is everywhere. He’s also silent, despite his bulk. And he wanted that girl. I know it. I didn’t see him last night, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows.’

  Marguerite shivered, remembering the first time she had seen P’tit Ours with Martine, the way he had tried to caress her cheek, the way he had appeared, his trousers unbuttoned, at the orangerie window.

  ‘Yes, you are right. P’tit Ours must be our first priority.’

  The wind was up. Clouds raced across the sky, leaving their shadowy imprint on the chalky ground. The world felt unstable as they bumped across the pitted roads.

  Unusually, the main gate of the Tellier house was locked. Their repeated ringing brought the manservant they had seen just a few days before. ‘Madame is indisposed,’ he said in a surly voice. ‘She wants no visitors. Monsieur left at dawn for Tours.’

  ‘It’s Madame Molineuf we’ve come to see. Madame Tellier would not wish us to be turned away, I can assure you.’

  The man registered the latent threat in her voice, shrugged and unlocked the heavy gate. They followed him up the slope to the door of the house. He left them standing in the dark lobby and bellowed a ‘Madame Molineuf…’ towards the back of the house.

  From upstairs, there was the crash of something heavy, a rush of cursing from a male voice. Marguerite met Durand’s eyes. Old Napoléon must be back in his daughter’s house. Before they could ask, Madame Molineuf appeared at the stairs, a stolid, aproned, angry presence who looked as if she had just been pulled from bed, despite the lateness of the hour. Her recognition of Marguerite did little to dent her hostility.

  ‘What do you want this time?’ The housekeeper addressed her, but she was staring at Durand. ‘You’ve brought the police, have you? None too soon, with all the cursing in this house. Morality police, that’s what they need.’ Close to, the woman’s cheeks looked mildewed, eaten away by some inner trouble.

  ‘This is Chief Inspector Durand.’

  The little man bowed while the woman fixed him with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘What’s happened then? Out with it.’

  ‘In fact, chère Madame,’ Durand was impeccable in his politeness, ‘we’ve come to interview your son. Will you fetch him for us?’

  ‘My son! What’s that good-for-nothing done now?’ She was grumbling, speaking to herself as much as to them. ‘A double pain he is now. Thinks he’s a man. Out all hours. He never came in last night. Stayed away. Maybe at the other place. How should I know?’

  There was another crash from upstairs, like that made by a wild animal let loose in a room full of furniture. Madame Molineuf seemed oblivious to it.

  ‘Always in trouble. Always. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a bad lad. Just a bit … well, on the simple side. I warned him. I did.’

  ‘We need to see him urgently, Madame.’

  ‘Urgently, eh? Well, he’s not here. No, that’s not him upstairs. I don’t let him up there. He’s probably out and about in the fields. Or the orchard. I told him. Told him not to bother coming home unless he could bring some wood back with him. No food unless he does what he’s told. No more. Keep him out from under my feet.’ She looked up at the ceiling as if there were more she’d like to sweep outside.

  ‘Can you direct us to him?’

  She shrugged as if the effort were too much for her. ‘You can’t miss the orchard if that’s where the scoundrel is. Between our house and the next one. He’ll be out there somewhere. Dreaming instead of working, no doubt. Wandering.’ An air of despair came over her. ‘I warned him, I did. It’s not to do with girls, is it, Inspector? I’ll beat him black and blue. I told him. I warned him. Stay away from the women. It’s the old master who leads him astray. He doesn’t understand. I’ll have to beat it into him.’

  Settled in the coach once more, Durand shook his head and cracked his knuckles. Belligerence warred with sadness in his features.

  ‘That woman drinks. And drinks. I thought it was a vice of the urban proletariat, but no. Did you take a look at her skin? No surprise the boy is simple. Degenerate.’

  He sat back in the seat and stroked his moustache reflectively, then embarked on another chapter in his intermittent disquisition on the rot of the underclass.

  Marguerite had heard much of it before and knew better than to interrupt. Degeneration was one of his bugbears. According to the inspector – and he was hardly alone, even amongst the ranks of the progressives – the world, at least the French bit of it, was rapidly moving to an end because of the demon drink, his sister opium and a generalised lasciviousness. The drinkers and the drug-takers produced the babies while others refrained. And what they produced were degenerates: feeble, sometimes emasculated offspring, inheritors of vile criminal blood, a terrible underclass who would bring France down.

  Since the inspector knew a great many more criminals than she did and since degeneration was a fashionable field of speculation, Marguerite rarely bothered to oppose him – even if she thought that alongside the inspector’s ‘bad blood’, poverty and misfortune had to be equal players in any description of what he called the criminal class. Only when he chose to add female freedom to his overall portrait of the ills of the time did she jump in to argue. Just because men controlled the state and production, there was no need for them to feel they had sole authority over reproduction, too.

  Today she stayed mute. She didn’t want her feelings about Olivier to infect her reason.

  ‘Not that Madame Tellier spares herself the tipple either. I had to stop her snoring during the concert last night. Then she had to be heaved into her carriage. Her husband couldn’t do it alone. Can you imagine the impact of living in a house like that on a pure young girl?’ The inspector’s face was bleak.

  ‘You mean on Martine’s sister? Did you have a chance to speak to Martine last night, Inspector?’

  ‘No, not during the party.’ He was gazing out of the window. ‘But earlier in the day.’

  ‘Did she say anything that might help us?’

  He tapped his fingers impatiently on the window. His gaze was fixed on the fields, searching out anything that moved.

  ‘Her sister had evidently described the horrors of her posting with graphic precision. I asked her whether I might read her letters to see if I could find any clues in them. She said she hadn’t brought them with her.’

  ‘Shame.’

  The inspector wriggled. ‘I didn’t altogether believe her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s something that girl is hiding from us. And now it may have come back to take her away … Ah, the orchard.’

  ‘Let’s carry on until we spot him, if we can. It’s chill out there.’

  ‘Madame will wait while I talk to him. The lout isn’t to be trusted with women.’

  ‘That may be, Inspector. But the boy will recognise me as a possible friend. He’s not stupid. Whe
reas you … Remember I’ve had conversations of a sort with him before. That may make finding out about Martine easier. That’s what we want first of all. And you, you will be my protector.’ Marguerite smiled, knowing the inspector could never refuse an act of gallantry.

  ‘If Madame insists,’ he murmured. He clenched his fists in preparation.

  Round a bend, they saw something moving behind one of the rows of pear trees. A bulky figure was tossing a bough into the air and catching it as easily as if it were a twiglet. There was both strength and awkwardness in his gestures, as if the youth’s hands were paddles that didn’t know about gripping until too late, but did so in any event. The bough caught, he broke it effortlessly in two and now threw the parts up into the air, only to catch and break them again. It was a kind of game.

  When he heard them he forgot to catch the pieces. Instead, he picked a basket up from the ground and started to trot in the opposite direction.

  Marguerite called out. She used the nickname Martine had given her. ‘P’tit Ours,’ she waved. ‘Wait, we need to talk to you. Wait.’

  She kept her voice light, all the time looking around her, superstitiously fearing that as part of his game P’tit Ours might have tied Martine to a tree trunk.

  The youth slowed, glanced at them, then picked up speed.

  Marguerite shouted again. Meanwhile the inspector wove his way round and came up on P’tit Ours from the other side.

  ‘Police, Molineuf. Stop. Or look forward to a life behind bars.’

  The threatening tone had its effect. P’tit Ours stopped, shuffled from foot to foot, swung his basket round like a mace.

  They were at the very tip of the orchard. The ground was hard from the cold, littered with twigs where the old, gnarled trees had cracked. From the end of the row they could see across the fields to what from this distance she could only guess was Napoléon Marchand’s house. On the other side was a high wall that edged into a dark hillock of almost the same height. Beyond it, where a low cloud hung, were the houses of Troo, which she would have supposed nearer. The fields played tricks with perspective.