knowledge of this woman's real name, the fact that she had such a plain, unflattering sir name, or that she called herself "Madame." Married. Married?
For the second time that day, René wanted to hit and beat and hammer at something with his fists. Never in his life had he felt so helpless, so enraged and completely unable to do anything about it.
"Madame . . . Smith? I am sorry. I did not realize . . . did not know, that is," he stumbled and tripped over his words. "I did not realize you were married, Madame. Désolé."
"Yes, well, désolé is the right word to choose. It's not a happy union," Juliette said, extracting a hankie from her small purse and dabbing her eyes.
"I'm terribly sorry about all of this," she waved the hanky toward the mess. "What will you do?"
"I. . ." René's voice warbled. He took a deep breath. "I will call the insurance company. They will know what to do. And the police, too, I think. This must be recorded, it must be dealt with in the legal way. There must be justice done."
"Absolutely," said Juliette. "Of course, you must contact the police. I wonder though, Monseuir Gervais. René. May I call you that?"
René nodded his head, a strange warmness licking the edges of his chest.
"René," she drew the name out. "I like that name. I wonder, René, if you have considered who is involved in this." Again the hanky waved toward the broken bakery. "Surely it's some personal vendetta? There can't be much cash to steal in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, can there?"
René shook his head. "Non. I have a safe, a very small safe. I keep here for the money during the day, eh? But I bring to the bank depository box each afternoon when I leave. I don't think they were looking for money, Mademoi. . . pardon, Madamee."
"I have a terrible feeling, René. An awful, horrible feeling." Juliette came closer, beginning to sway lightly on her feet. Rene put an arm out to steady her. Her hair smelled like jasmine. The scent nearly made Rene swoon himself.
"Careful, Madamee. Perhaps if you have a seat?"
He walked with Juliette clinging to his arm to a small table by the front window. Righting an overturned chair with one hand, he guided the small woman to it. She sank down gratefully.
"I have nothing to give you to drink," said René, "except a glass of cold water. Would that be helpful?"
He scurried to the kitchen at her nod, filled a cut glass goblet and returned it to her. Her face was pale, eyes closed, and he saw tiny, thin lines across her forehead that he'd never noticed before. His heart pinched.
"Madame?" He placed the glass before her on a thick paper napkin.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you, René." She took three small sips and sighed. Then a smile touched her rose colored lips. "Much better."
"Please sit with me," she motioned to the chair nearest her. René righted a second chair and pulled it near the table, leaving an appropriate distance between the two of them. For a single, blissful moment the sunlight streamed through the front windows, warming them. There was no outside world and no Monsieur Smith, no unhappy marriage or smashed patisserie.
"I think I know who did this, René."
Her voice, small and delicate broke the bubble cleanly.
"Pardon?"
"I think it was . . . that is, I'm not certain, but I believe it might be. . ." Now it was Juliette's turn to stammer. René waited, heart pounding like a hammer.
"I believe it might have been Mr. Smith, René. My husband."
"But why?"
Juliette hurried on, as though he hadn't spoken.
"That is, not my husband himself, but men he hired. He has lots of men on hand to do his dirty work."
"Why?" René repeated. "Why would he do this?"
Juliette looked at him, her chocolate eyes melting. "Because of you. Of us. I mean, he's a jealous, cruel man. I believe he would stop at nothing, or rather this," she motioned again to the chaos, "to get his point across. That I'm his and no one else's. He's been like this for years. Every time I draw close to someone, express an interest in anyone in the outside world, he punishes them. He wants to control me, my life. And he will never stop."
Rene was silent for several long moments, thinking.
"But isn't there someone you can go to? The police? An agency that will help women in this circumstance?"
"I've tried," Juliette said, tears forming once again in her eyes. She lifted the hankie to them, delicately wiping. "I've tried and it's no use. He has friends everywhere, you see. It's my word against his and his is more," she shrugged, "Well, it's a man's world. And his word holds more weight than mine, I'm afraid.
"You won't tell the police will you? It would be very bad for me if you did, René." Juliette dropped the hankie on the table, clasping both her small, bird-like hands over the baker's. Her hands felt warm and soft, like tiny loaves of fresh dough. René's mind was swimming, pushed by his stream of consciousness in a hundred directions at once. And below all the confusion lay the rage, still hot and red and ready to explode.
René stood and lowered Juliette's hands back onto the café table.
"Non, I won't tell the police what you have told me. It will make no difference I think, in the end. The insurance company will handle what needs to be done and the police will make an investigation. If there is anything to find, I believe they will find it."
"Of course," said Juliette. "Thank you so very much. It's just that Mr. Smith, he gets so angry with me. I'm sure that if there were even a hint that I'd shared all of this with you, well," she shivered. "I would hate to think of what he'd do to me."
René's heart ached, literally ached in his chest. Poor, poor beautiful woman. His own belle mademoiselle, tormented by this, atrocity, this monster of a husband. He thought of the first day he'd seen her in his patisserie. Had it only been weeks ago? Of her kind comments and encouragement. It was because of Juliette that René had finally been brave enough to try to create flowers and pine cones and swirling green vines. And he would save his best samples until she came the next day, pride unlike he'd ever felt before warm and strong in his chest.
And now to learn of this monster of a husband, this cruel person shackled to the lovely Juliette for life, making her life miserable. Ah, it was too much to bear!
Juliette sat watching him, her face holding a small, strong smile.
"It will be alright," she said, comforting him when it should be he who did the comforting. "Your shop will be back together in no time. And my life, well, it will go back to the way it was before as well."
René's heart stopped for a brief instant, then returned, galloping forward. His breath twisted painfully in his chest.
"You mean. . .” The words would not come to him. He sat in stunned silence, staring out the plate glass at the quiet street beyond.
"Yes," Juliette said gently, then took a small sip of water. "I won't be able to come see you anymore. Not ever. It won't be safe. This is my husband's message to you, to us," she said looking around the bakery. "We must listen and obey."
"Non!" René's voice was so strong and so loud that it startled even him. "Non, Madame, I will not allow it. I will not allow this, this dictator to run your life, to control you and . . ." he lapsed momentarily into French, muttering quietly under his breath.
"But what can we do?" Juliette asked, eyes imploring. "Can we defy him? Make him sorry for what he's done? It would be lovely of course, sweet vengeance. But how, René? There is nothing we can do. Except. . ."
Pause.
"Except what, Madame?"
"Please, stop calling me that. Call me Juliette, or Mademoiselle or anything but that. I detest the reminder that I'm his."
"Very well. Except what, Mademoiselle Juliette?" The name tasted as sweet as glace on his tongue.
"It's stupid, really. Ridiculous. It's just that I'm so," her voice trailed off as she studied the table cloth, as though it might contain a vision into her future. "I'm so frightened about what will happen to me." Her lower lip trembled. "I w
ake each morning wondering how I will make it through another day with that man part of my life, hounding my steps, casting his shadow over my days. And I just thought . . . but it's ridiculous of course. Ludicrous."
“Tell me, please.”
“If you were to, that is . . . if you were able to make him go away, René, we would then have a chance. To be together; be free from his rage and malice.”
René’s breath sounded ragged in his ears. His pulse was beating so hard in his head he was sure it might explode.
“Merde.”
Juliette remained silent. Her eyes held his, her back straight and shoulders perfectly square under the thin jacket. Her small hands lay like tiny, tired birds on the table.
René had spent his life thinking, contemplating, carefully evaluating everything he did. He was the angry Frenchman that everyone said he was and he didn't care. Too old to change. Too set in his ways. But now, for the first time that the baker could remember, he wanted something. Badly. Wanted Juliette to be happy, to continue seeing her. Wanted revenge on the man who'd done this to his life's work, too. Ruined his business. The hot press of anger re-ignited, smoldering in his gut. Flame tongues licked upward, singeing his stomach and esophagus until it felt he'd breathe fire if he opened his mouth.
"I will do this thing," his words slipped from parched lips and he half expected to see smoke trailing after them. He looked deeply into Juliette's eyes, those beautiful warm pools of brown and gave a single nod. "Yes Mademoiselle Juliette. For you, anything."
Bitter & Sweet: a Short Story Page 2
