Sophie stepped forward, pushing ahead of her a man seated in a wheelchair. The mourners parted slightly, as if to give the invalid a moment of intimacy with the deceased. Motionless on his seat, he watched the scene unfolding around him, as if an outsider to the world. His features were drawn, and suffering marked his face. With a grimace of pain, he made an effort to straighten his torso. He wanted to offer the departed a posture worthy of their courage.
Aline Bergson, director of the nursing home, whispered in Nadia’s ear.
“Pierre Dupré died happy, Captain. And that’s partly thanks to you.”
The police officer looked at her in surprise. “I had nothing to do with it,” replied the young woman.
“Oh, yes, you did, you had a lot to do with it. Pierre kept me informed of events. You brought him his grandson. It’s also thanks to you he can now go to his eternal rest beside his beloved wife and daughter. He was very sick and suffering terribly, but he waited until Julien was out of the woods to let himself die.”
Nadia was more moved by Aline Bergson’s words than she would have imagined. She’d seen the old man twice. The first time, in June with Julien, and the second time a week ago to tell him the police had found his daughter Magali’s body. Without a word, the man had hugged her with his dying arms, and she’d received more love from that embrace than she had in the course of the last fifteen years—aside from the moments she’d just spent with Étienne. She smiled inwardly.
“I’m happy he could die unburdened.”
Nadia left the director and went over to the tomb. The man seated in the wheelchair had emerged from his meditation. He was worn out, but his stooped shape nevertheless radiated a spark of energy that reassured her. Denise and Emmanuel Lombard, accompanied by Sophie, came over to the young man in turn. He looked at them gravely.
“It was very nearly me getting buried next to Pierre. Life is strange.”
“In this case, it was strangely kind to us,” replied Sophie.
He smiled at her, then grimaced as he tried to move his wheelchair. The young woman stopped him and scolded him gently.
“Julien, you got a special discharge from the hospital. Don’t strain yourself unnecessarily. You have to take the time to heal.”
“Especially,” added Emmanuel Lombard, “since you have an extraordinary nurse to take care of you.”
Fortin, who’d just joined them, marveled.
“You managed to get a full-time nurse? What’s your secret?”
“It’s me!” answered Sophie with a smile. “I thought about it a lot over the last few days. I had quite a bit of time, since a night didn’t go by without me being woken up by horrible nightmares. I’ve decided to go back to studying medicine.”
Surprise showed on the faces around her. Madeleine and Antoine Dupas, who had joined them, were the only ones not looking surprised.
“Can you enlighten us about your decision?” asked Nadia.
“I studied medicine for three years, and . . .”
“Three quite brilliant years, for that matter,” commented Antoine Dupas.
“Thank you, Papa, but let me finish. At the end of the third year, I had a bad breakup with a young doctor, and I decided to stop. I changed direction.”
“And what’s leading you to go back?” questioned Étienne.
“What I endured during that night of the solstice upset a lot of things inside me. I told myself I wanted to turn my life toward others. And I was touched by the care Sartenas lavished on Julien. I hate that man. He wanted to kill me—and in such a way! He’s haunted my nights since that horrible moment I wouldn’t wish on even my worst enemy. But I was fascinated by his precise movements, which returned life to the man I love. When I saw him giving first aid to Julien . . . I almost admired him in spite of myself.”
“That man is scum!” Julien interjected violently. “He didn’t want to save me, but a son he’d fantasized about all his life.”
“Without a shadow of a doubt, Julien, and it doesn’t excuse in the slightest all the harm he could do. That doesn’t change the fact it was his hands that kept you alive until help came.”
“I know that all too well. But I can’t find extenuating circumstances for him. He killed Magali, made her parents suffer for thirty long years, was mixed up in the worst business, killed I don’t know how many innocent victims! Certainly, he saved me, but I feel no gratitude inside. And his last gestures will change nothing!”
The injured man’s last cryptic words piqued Antoine Dupas’s curiosity. He hesitated, then his need to understand overruled his discretion.
“I know I lack tact, but may I know what those last gestures you’re talking about are?”
Julien remained silent, wanting to sever all ties with that murderer he’d believed to be his father. Nadia decided to answer the historian.
“For the first three weeks after his arrest, Sartenas said nothing. He just acknowledged the two previous murders but gave no explanation. Total silence. Last Monday, he finally decided to tell us where he’d buried his wife’s body. Then yesterday, he decided to give his entire fortune to Julien.”
“We talked about it last night,” Julien broke in bluntly. “There’s no question of touching a single cent of that money!”
“How much is it?” Antoine Dupas dared.
“According to Sartenas,” Nadia said, “not far off thirty million dollars, distributed across various accounts in offshore tax havens.”
“It’ll be given to charitable organizations,” explained Julien. “That money is undoubtedly blood money, but it’ll serve to alleviate suffering.”
“You didn’t tell him Julien wasn’t his son?” questioned the historian.
“We left that decision up to Julien,” replied Nadia.
“I wanted to tell him,” the young man sighed. “I wanted to see him suffer as he might have made those around him suffer for years. But Sophie asked me not to do it. Not out of some gesture of pity or mercy, but to thank him for having saved my life and given both of us the chance to be able to live together.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I didn’t regret it. His remorse, or his desire to give me something, pushed him to reveal Magali’s resting place. In spite of himself, he made Pierre Dupré happy that way.”
“And why did he give you his fortune?” asked Denise Lombard.
“I don’t know. Out of remorse as well?”
Nadia’s phone rang. She stepped away and came back a minute later. Her attitude shouted to the waiting group.
“I think we have the answer to our questions.” She continued, responding to Julien’s silent interrogation, “It was probably his will. Dominique Sartenas just hanged himself in his cell.”
Epilogue
August. Julien got up from his chair, grabbed his crutch, and headed for the barbecue.
“Stay seated, Juju, I’ll do it!” Sophie stopped him, catching him by the arm.
“Juju?” repeated Emmanuel Lombard, laughing. “What does that mean?”
Julien looked at him, a smile on his lips. He’d started to recuperate and could manage to get around by himself, even though the pain was still present.
“It means Sophie has been allowing herself to take liberties in public for three days. It also means I’ve recovered enough energy to go down on one knee before Antoine here to ask him officially for his daughter’s hand.”
“Lovely!” exclaimed Nadia, clapping her hands in parody of a teenager from an American TV show. “But I didn’t think you were so old school!”
Madeleine Dupas intervened in the conversation. “Julien isn’t old school, but my husband is. And his dream was to see his daughter’s suitor ask for her hand in the old way. I mentioned it to Julien, who found the idea amusing.”
“I find there’s some good in traditions,” commented the historian, satisfied with himself.
“I implored Julien not to do it, but he didn’t listen to me!” concluded Sophie, arriving with a tray of smoking kebabs. “In any case, you will of course be the guests of honor at this wedding. Nadia, will you be my maid of honor? I’ll get your dress for you.”
Nadia jumped, then replied.
“Sophie, you’re an excellent friend, but you still shouldn’t ask too much of me. Being dressed in pink meringue, even for you, I just can’t.”
“I was joking,” Sophie reassured her.
“That’s better!” Then she added, “Could I ask you a favor?”
“No point. Étienne is quite obviously invited. He hasn’t arrived yet, either?”
“No, he had paperwork to collect. But he shouldn’t be long.”
Emmanuel Lombard changed the conversation. “Have you been part of the investigation into the cult Boisregard created?” he asked the policewoman.
“Sort of. Commissioner Mazure didn’t want me to be too involved in that case. He thought I’d been tested enough by Boisregard’s actions. He preferred to keep me away from the investigation so as not to throw me into the middle of that media circus.”
“And what were the findings?”
“What you could read in the newspapers. The three participants in what the press is now calling ‘The Night of the Solstice’ might get the maximum penalty. Boisregard’s apartment was searched, and the police found references to well-stocked foreign accounts. I also understand they found a certain number of compromising photos. But it would appear someone in high places wanted to hush up the scandal. Furthermore, the files on the murders committed when he was in Bordeaux have been reopened. They’re going to be restudied in light of Professor Boisregard’s new personality.”
“Do you think he killed those young women?” asked Antoine Dupas.
“I don’t have the documents on hand, but you must admit the hypothesis merits a serious look.”
“And Sartenas?” asked Julien’s father.
“We’ve started tracing his past. But aside from the Grenoble murders, all the other crimes he might have committed were perpetrated outside of French territory. So we’ve passed our information on to several countries interested in his criminal acts. His suicide put an end to our investigations into his activities.”
“His suicide also helped me to recover some semblance of normal nights,” added Sophie. “I think it’s the best thing he could have done.”
The conversation was halted by the crunching tires of a car stopping in front of the gate. A few seconds later, Étienne Fortin appeared on the lawn. Sophie went to greet him affectionately, but his concerned look troubled her. Nadia noticed it at the same time.
“What’s going on?” asked the alert policewoman.
The policeman laid a brown paper envelope on the table. He pushed it toward Julien. “I’ll let you open it. You should be the one to find out what’s inside.”
Anxious, Julien hurried to unseal it. In silence, he read the letter that accompanied a sheaf of papers. His face suddenly lit up.
“Oh, how clever! You’re so pleased with your joke!” he shot at him, half angry and half laughing.
“Could you tell us what’s going on, perhaps?”
“Julien has just received proof that he has no blood relationship with Dominique Cabrade. The DNA analyses are official.”
“And you just had to tell him like that?” commented Nadia, appalled. “What am I doing with a guy like you?”
Julien Lombard didn’t give the policeman time to respond. “Aurélien Costel is my father, or rather my progenitor,” he corrected himself, looking at his father. “Although I highly doubted it, I must confess this official confirmation is a relief. Cabrade’s line is extinct!”
Afterword
I’ve always taken pleasure in reading or telling stories: scary stories when, as teenagers, we took walks with friends in the moors of Brittany; stories about valiant heroes and princesses, later, for my children; and stories of fantasy and suspense today.
Trained as an engineer, I’ve had cause to travel around the world, experiencing transatlantic flights, interminable connections in airports, even a few strikes now and then! Which might give rise to another novel a bit later . . .
Writing has become a means of transforming those long hours of waiting into enthralling moments. Setting up suspenseful situations, diving to the edge of the fantastic, giving life to characters who accompany me for weeks or months and then take you to the heart of their stories.
When I start writing a novel or a story, I know only the frame very vaguely at first. It seems certain writers have perfect command over the map of their manuscripts before beginning: I must admit I am not one of them. I discover the story as I write it, and I want it to hold me spellbound as much as it will the reader who discovers the book.
Furthermore, if you want to be informed about my future books or promotions, send an e-mail to [email protected], simply specifying “e-mail list” in the subject line. Your e-mail address will not be shared with any third party and will not be used for other purposes. If you’d like to write me a little note as well, don’t be shy! I’ll respond to you personally!
My blog for everything about my novels, and especially for photos of the various locations: jacquesvandroux.blogspot.fr
My Facebook page: facebook.com/vandroux
My Facebook account: facebook.com/jacques.vandrouxauteur
About the Author
Photo © 2011 Simone Vandroux
Jacques Vandroux has spent most of his life in Paris and the French Alps. As an engineer, he used his time traveling the world to write books and short stories. His first two novels, Les Pierres Couchées and Multiplication, were bestsellers in France. Heart Collector is the new English translation of Au Cœur du Solstice, which was published to great acclaim in Vandroux’s home country.
About the Translator
Wendeline A. Hardenberg first became curious about translation as an undergrad at Smith College, where she ultimately translated part of a novel from French as a portion of her honors thesis in comparative literature. After receiving a dual master’s degree in comparative literature (with a focus on translation) and library science at Indiana University Bloomington, she has gone on to a dual career as a translator and a librarian. Learning new languages and trying to translate from them is one of her favorite hobbies. She lives in New Haven, Connecticut.
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