A Silver Ring in the Ear

by Tony Duvert

  “But… didn’t you actually receive any treatment?”

  “Oh of course, what were you thinking. Old people have some difficulty sleeping, and the professor prescribed lime-blossom tea and orange-flower water for me.”

  “I see. Did he seem to you to be in good health?”

  “At our age, inspector, the whole world is well, and the whole world is ill,” responded the charming old Madame Sauveterre. “He had his gout. I have my hip. Otherwise I found that he was in the best of health.”

  “Well he was strangled directly after you left,” said Sorel. “Strangled in a way that even a very weak person, a small child for example, could have managed.”

  “He didn’t treat children, I believe. But that isn’t what you are asking! He was much younger and larger than me; I weigh seven stone on my good days! No, I would not dare claim that I could have killed him, even if I tried. And then that sort of thing is really not in my character!”

  XI

  Madame Sauveterre put her tea-cup down carefully.

  “Peter will never know how to make it,” sighed Oriane Brisset. “I run all round Paris! I run all round Paris to buy the best teas, and you see what he makes of them.”

  “Oriane, I don’t want to annoy you,” said Madame Sauveterre, “but to me this tea seems delicious.”

  “No, no, I assure you,” protested Oriane.

  “Very well, if you don’t like it, listen, why don’t you ask your Peter to bring you the tea in its box, with the teapot and kettle, and then you, you understand, you can make it yourself?”

  Before Madame Brisset replied, Madame Sauveterre, whose easy-chair was facing the door, cried:

  “Oh! Good Heavens.”

  Because it had been thrown open abruptly.

  “My little one, you gave us a start!” said Oriane happily.

  She was faniliar with her grandson’s sudden arrivals, and she had detected Marc even before he came in.

  Marc ran to his grandmother without greeting the other lady. He gave off the fine odour of spring, foliage and flowers, fresh flesh. Laughing, he kissed Oriane. His silver ring was solidly installed on his ear.

  “Look Carol, how nice it is!” said Madame Brisset.

  Authoritatively, she grasped her grandson’s hips with both hands, and turned the boy towards Madame Sauveterre, so as to give her a clear view of Marc’s right ear. Marc, quite pliant, was delighted at how Oriane displayed his beauty.

  “Look, Carole, look!”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Madame Sauveterre, genuinely surprised. “Ah! how nice! How graceful it is! What an entrancing idea! How suitable that is for boys! The little corsair!”

  “My daughter didn’t approve, you will understand,” said Oriane. “She is… she is always quite conformist. Fundamentally, you know. She has ideas of the Molotov cocktail kind, but behind the scenes, the scenes one sees, she’s a religious bigot.”

  “She doesn’t like it?”

  “Carole, just think that, the other evening, our little Marc came down from his room, he should have been in bed long ago, and I too! He was galloping around, he was going to leave, or I don’t know what, run away! And why? Carole, he had put that little ring onto his little ear, and his mother made quite a scene of it.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “I was in the vestibule. I stopped Marc just in time. I know him! He would have left, our Marc. He would have been found at Marseille the following week! He has a hot little bum! Marc is a real boy, my daughter doesn’t understand that.”

  Oriane Brisset went on stroking her grandson’s hips, he allowing her to treat him like a cat.

  “It’s very graceful, that ring,” Madame Sauveterre repeated. “But Philippe, how is he?”

  At the name “Philippe”, Marc abruptly disengaged himself and, without saying good-bye, left the two ladies.

  “Children are marvellous!” commented Madame Sauveterre, and this sudden departure, this birdlike vivacity, awakened in her a thousand memories of youth, freedom and hope.

  “Marc is like my husband,” said the widow Brisset. “He’s perfectly good, but he’s stubborn! In children, those are the most lovable. As husbands, well, I don’t know. Men annoy me too much, Carole, almost as much as women!’

  Madame Sauvetere gave an elegant cry of pleasure. She had been married several times: she liked men enormously in those days, and the good food, good beds, the cupboards filled with the most beautiful house-linen, the daily lives organised so amicably, decent husbands, kindly and chaste. She had been divorced three times, and her fourth husband died all alone. The one before that had been extraordinarily vexing: in spite of his tender expression and good manners, he had an enormous penis that hurt her badly, and, after a few years, he began to spit into the fireplace. What an imbecile!

  “Oriane, you’re not wearing mourning clothes, I see,” said Carole Sauveterre. “Since we’re talking about husbands.”

  “Carole, since we’ve known each other!” said Oriane.

  Madame Sauveterre took a last petit four. She soaked it in the last of the tea in her cup, tasted it, enjoyed it, and put on her saucer the portion of dry cake that no longer interested her. She said:

  “I forgot, Oriane! The police came to see me! They asked me I don’t know how many questions.”

  Oriane Brisset raised her eyebrows politely: this subject seemed not to please her. She became dignified:

  “So who?” she asked. “That little inspector?”

  “Yes, a little inspector, very kind, very kind,” said Carole. “I was ashamed, because I completely forgot to offer him a drink. And I assure you that it wasn’t warm! There’s no longer any spring-time! One no longer knows how to grow old, when it’s so gloomy. Actually…”

  “And what did he ask you?” said Oriane, who was a good ten years younger than Madame Sauveterre.

  “You will laugh,” said Carole. “According to him, imagine, I was your husband’s last patient. He found that on his agenda, or whatever it’s called.”

  “You didn’t tell him anything, then?”

  “Oriane! You’re making fun of me! You’re still taking me as a nut-case! I can assure you that I have all my marbles!… I said that I left at seven thirty-four.”

  “Ah, that’s good. But why thirty-four?”

  “Just so. To be precise. He was so kind!”

  “I think he’s a pouf,” said Oriane. “They know nothing about women.”

  “He was well educated, which at my age is agreeable in the young, Oriane.”

  “And did he ask you anything about Dieudefoi?”

  “No. They have no common sense. They are kids.”

  Oriane Brisset touched the teapot: but whatever it had contained was now cold and bitter.

  “Anyway,” said Madame Sauveterre, “Dieudefoi was a godsend!”

  “Carole, I remember the name, but I have completely forgotten the circumstances in which you found him. You know that I have no memory of anything. I’ve been growing tulips for thirty years, and I still have to read magazines to find out that they exist!”

  “That’s what I like about you, Oriane!” said Madame Sauveterre. “But remember! It was right at the start. When I came to consult your husband after the death of my own, the last one.”

  “The smoke doesn’t disturb you,” said Oriane. It was not a question. She took out a box of little Davidoffs.

  “No, no, smoke. I’ve always enjoyed the smell of smokers. But this Dieudefoi business!… Do I really have to tell you?”

  “Sometimes, Carole, I am stupefied that the smoke from my cigars comes from my nose, rather than from my ears or from my finger-tips! I’m a colander! Tell me, you’ll give me such pleasure!”

  Madame Brisset seemed to be sincere.

  “Well, seven years ago,” said Carole Sauveterre, “How young I was!… I was going through my widowhood, and, I don’t know why, it was not going so well as your own.”

  “Probably it wasn’t the same man, nor the same woman,” said O
riane Brisset.

  “Probably!” repled Carole. “I can well believe you! In the end, I was having thoughts about religion. As a young girl I greatly loved the Church. We were so good! So happy!”

  “Girls are so coquettish.”

  “Yes Oriane, precisely: after the catechism, or after mass, we thought ourselves so pretty! And the priests were so nice.”

  “Would you like some coffee? How ugly those robes are!”

  “Ah yes, yes, but one gets used to them,” said Carole. “That’s what happened to me. No husband? Long live the Church! Reawkening half a century later.”

  “This tobacco is so good! When I think that my mother never smoked!… Yes, I remember, you were kind of sanctimonious.”

  “No, please! No, not at all. But I no longer knew which saint to devote myself to. So I explained that to your husband, and he made such fun of me!”

  “Carole, it’s coming back to me. It was when he told you that…”

  “That’s right, yes! He said to me, ‘Madame Sauveterre, I forbid the good Lord to you, and I won’t give you any medicine. Either wank yourself or remarry, but if you talk to me again about the Church I will send you off to Sainte-Anne!’”

  “My husband was never so intimate with me,” said Oriane. “Oh, I’ve often wanked, mark you, but without ever thinking of him. Did you like him, yourself?”

  “I am much older!” apologized Carole Sauveterre. “All the same, I swear to you that I wouldn’t have been pleased if he produced his men’s thingummy for me. You know, I’m seventy-two: well, for a long time I’ve preferred to wank myself without thinking of any one at all.”

  “I understand you,” said Oriane. “I’m like you, people, forget them. But then, didn’t he flirt with you, that inspector?”

  “No, certainly not. He’s a nice man, though. Oriane, imagine him quite naked, so that you could use him, just like eating cake?”

  “I can very well imagine,” said Oriane, a little drunk from her good tobacco.

  “Well I did the old lady routine, I had no choice.”

  “They’re so annoying with that,” said the widow Brisset.

  “Yes! Always a role! A role, That’s all they expect from us. Well, that’s what I did. And I can assure you that he was really convinced that I was your husband’s last patient.”

  Mademe Sauveterre seized and opened a crystal container that held pretty marzipans. She took a pink one.

  “That inspector?” replied Oriane. “I too hope that he knows nothing. Unfortunately, Carole, the police took away my husband’s card-index. At the same time as the body…”

  “So, do they know?”

  “I fear so. They must have seen that your name was used to disguise some one else. And that this Dieudefoi was you!”

  “But then,” said Madame Sauveterre, “why wasn’t the inspector informed of that?”

  “Oh, they don’t really intend to have an investigation, I think.”

  “It’s unpleasant for that boy, then. He seemed so courteous.”

  Oriane Brisset stubbed out her butt. She was beginning to find the old lady a little irritating.

  “I was forgetting, Oriane!” Madame Sauveterre suddenly exclaimed. “Was it you who gave that ear-ring to your grandson?”

  “Me? You’re dreaming!” said Oriane. “On no account. What is extraordinary is that no one in the house knows who presented Marc with that gift.”

  “I cannot believe you!”

  “But yes, yes,” said Oriane. “That’s what accounts for my daughter’s reaction. Marc found that thing outside, and he had his ear pierced outside. All by himself?…”

  “But yes, do you think he could do that all alone?”

  “The ring must have cost eight thousand francs or so. It’s exquisite workmanship! Of course Marc is a thief, like all kids, but I find it hard to imagine him carrying out such a magnificent coup in the sort of shop where these things are sold! He’s only eight, after all!”

  “Yes, it’s a strange story,” said Madame Sauveterre. “And so it would indicate that some one…”

  “Precisely,” Oriane cut in. “That’s what my daughter’s afraid of. She thinks that Marc must have met some one who… well, you can guess, the kind of individual who. And she’s frightened.”

  “How I understand her! So in the end, Oriane, this business is a thousand times more serious than the murder of your husband! Your grandson might be the victim of… the victim of a…”

  “Without a doubt,” said Oriane. “And the worst thing is that Marc refuses to say anything, and he doesn’t complain at all.”

  “That man must be abominable!” howled Madame Sauveterre. “I hope you’ve told Marc not to go out alone.”

  “That’s impossible, you know what he’s like. But my daughter is going to hire a private detective to shadow him, or I should say, protect him.”

  Madame Sauveterre frowned and shook her head as a sign of disapprobation:

  “Those people, Oriane, are useful only for collecting evidence of adultery!”

  XII

  He was playing a recorder, a mediocre instrument, almost a shepherd’s pipe. He was sitting on the ground, near the entrance to the Saint-Severin church. He had a blond beard and large spectacles for the blind. The plate beside his feet contained a few copper coins.

  A cat approached, curious. It was pleased by the scene, and lay down against the musician’s thigh, after sniffing it.

  Another, larger cat, marked by a large scar across its back, pink and innocent, had soon joined the first. The sight of these two cats had attracted onlookers. People listened to the flute, People bent down to contribute a coin silently.

  Julien Sorel, being timid, did not dare come too close to the big blond bearded man who was slowly playing melancholy melodies. He listened.

  At last, however, he decided. He took out a hundred-franc note, folded it into quarters, and put it down near the coins.

  The blind man brutally seized his wrist. Sorel knelt, of necessity. How strong this man was! The musician murmured:

  “Metro Mabillon, at the entrance, in six minutes.”

  Six minutes. It wasn’t much to get over there. Sorel stood up and started to run. He went up the Boulevard Saint-Michel again, and took the Boulevard Saint-Germain, jostling the passers-by.

  The blond and bearded blind man was by some miracle already there, and his hard face betrayed no emotion when Julien arrived.

  “Come on,” said the blind man in a raucous voice. Hurry up!”

  The musician dragged Julien Sorel: a suspicious door gave them access to the kitchens of the university restaurant.

  “Now look for the loos. I want to screw you!” the blind man snarled imperiously.

  And Julien obeyed. “It’s crazy,” he thought. “If I only knew some one in the theatre, golly how gifted he is, this Gabriel, my own Gabriel.”

  Marc was walking with an elegant and serious lady, who was holding his hand.

  “You’re not good as a kind lady to-day,” said the boy.

  “Why?” asked the lady.

  “You haven’t got beautiful hair.”

  “I changed my wig,” said the lady. “Don’t you like this one?”

  “When do you have your real hair?” asked Marc.

  “My own?”

  The lady smiled without looking at the boy.

  “Your own actual hair,” confirmed the little boy.

  “When I’m quite naked,” the lady finally responded. “On that point, Marc, do they know now who killed your grandfather?”

  “No, they don’t know. Why don’t you make yourself quite naked?”

  “It’s difficult in the street.”

  “You’d only have to come to my house. We could do it in the nude.”

  “Ladies don’t much like to take off their clothes,” said the lady.

  “Yes, I know. My mother’s the same. But you’re not a lady like them!”

  “I assure you I am.”

  “A real one? W
ith a hole in front?” asked Marc, incredulous.

  “And you?” asked the lady mockingly. “What have you got in front?”

  Marc released the lady’s hand, moved away, and looked at his slender body in its well-tailored clothing; he laughed with pleasure; and came back to take the hand again:

  “Me, I’m a kid!” he explained.

  XIII

  “No, Philippe!” cried Dr. Brunet.

  he had stopped the boy at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You can go up to your room and change your clothes. There’s no question of playing tennis this afternoon.”

  Philippe scowled, hesitated, and looked at his stepfather:

  “There’s no reason why I should go,” he replied.

  “Is that for you to judge?” asked Dr. Brunet. “I remind you that you’re supposed to be in mourning for your grandfather.

  Philippe flashed a scornful smile.

  “Precisely. He would have understood.”

  “My poor boy. You’re digressing. Go back to your room, I implore you. If this death means nothing to you, at least respect the family of which you are a member.”

  “Ye-es, don’t I know it,” mocked Philippe in an undertone. But he obeyed.

  For a fraction of a second, though, Dr. Brunet had an impression that the adolescent was going to hurl his racket at his shins. But no. Philippe went upstairs. The incident was over.

  Marc heard his half-brother come in. Their rooms were next to each other. He was displeased: when Philippe was staying there, it was impossible to play quietly. (Marc liked to play in the altogether.)

  The two boys hated each other.

  Philippe hated Marc for being the son of Dr. Brunet, the second husband of Beatrice their mother: two usurpers. Marc reigned over the whole house, Brunet domineered from a distance, from on high: and Philippe was ousted, forgotten, thrown into a silly luxurious boarding-school, far away from Paris.

  As for Marc, he had just one reason to hate his half-brother: Philippe, instead of being passionately fond of the boy as the others were, displayed an obstinate hostility and scorn towards him. And so Marc returned those a hundredfold.