Fire in the Blood (8 page)

She didn't have the strength to reply, so she simply nodded.

"My poor darling, this must be very painful for you. Go outside, let me talk to this boy alone."

She shook her head. Everyone was silent. The lad seemed to sober up all of a sudden. You could see him trembling as he answered Francois's pressing questions. "All right, then, I saw someone shove him into the river. I told my grandma the same night, but she said I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."

"But look here, if a crime's been committed you have to go to the police, punish the culprit.

"These people are unbelievable," Francois whispered to me. "They can watch a man being murdered before their very eyes and still not say a word 'to avoid getting involved.' They saw what happened to our poor Jean and for two years they've kept quiet. Colette, tell him he doesn't have the right to keep silent! Do you hear me, boy, Monsieur Jean's widow is ordering you to speak up."

"That true, Madame?" he asked, looking up at her. "Yes." She sighed and buried her face in her hands.

The women had abandoned the washing up and come out of the kitchen. They stood and listened, their hands clasped over their stomachs.

"Well," said the lad, "first off, you should know that my dad had punished me that night, because of a cow I didn't clean up like I should've. He hit me and threw me out without supper. I was so mad, I didn't feel like going back in. They kept calling me when it was bedtime, but I pretended not to hear. Dad said, 'Fine, if he wants to be that way, le
t h
im sleep outdoors, that'll teach him.' I really wanted to go in then, but I didn't want anyone making fun of me. So I sneaked into the kitchen and got some bread and cheese. Then I went to hide down by the river. You know the place, Madame, that spot under the willows where you sometimes used to go and read in summer. That's where I was when I heard Monsieur Jean's car. 'Strange,' I said to myself, 'he's home sooner than expected.' He wasn't due back till the next day, remember? But he stopped the car in the meadow and stood next to it for a really long time-so long that I got scared, I don't know why. It was a funny kind of night. The wind was whistling, all the trees were shaking . . . I think he must have been by the car because I couldn't see him. To get back to the mill, he would've had to cross the bridge, and pass right in front of me. I thought maybe he was hiding, or waiting for someone. It lasted such a long time I fell asleep. A noise on the bridge woke me up. Two men fighting. It all happened so quick I didn't have a chance to leg it. One of the men threw the other one in the water and took off. I heard Monsieur Jean cry out as he fell; I recognised his voice. He shouted, 'Oh, God!' Then there was nothing but the sound of the river. So I ran straight home and woke everyone up to tell them what'd happened. Grandma said, 'Now listen, you, all you have to do is keep quiet, you didn't see nothing, didn't hear nothing, understand?' I hadn't been home five minutes when you got there, Madame, calling for help, saying your husband had been drowned and asking us to look for the body. So

Dad went down to the mill. Grandma'd been Monsieur Jean's nanny. 'I'll go and find a sheet and wrap him in it with my own hands,' she said, 'that poor boy,' and Mum sent me to Coudray to tell them the master was dead. That's it. That's all I know."

"Are you sure you weren't dreaming? You'd repeat what you told us to a judge?"

He hesitated slightly, then replied, "Yes, I would. It's the truth."

"And the man who pushed Monsieur Jean into the water, do you know who he was?"

There was a very long silence as everyone stared at the boy. Only Colette looked away. She had her hands clasped in front of her now; the tips of her fingers were trembling.

"No idea," the boy said at last.

"You didn't catch a glimpse of him? Not even for a second? It was a clear night, after all."

"I was still half asleep. I saw two men fighting. That's all." "And Monsieur Jean didn't cry out for help?"

"If he did, I didn't hear him."

"Which way did the other man go?"

"Into the woods."

Francois rubbed his eyes. "This is incredible. It's . . . it's unbelievable. Yes, an accident on the bridge is possible, but only if Jean had been feeling ill or faint: you don't slip on a bridge you've crossed ten times a day for twenty-five years. Colette said that 'he must have blacked out.' But why? He didn't suffer from vertigo; he was fit and healthy. On th
e o
ther hand we all know there were robberies committed in the area that year, and fires set, and that several prowlers were arrested. I did sometimes wonder whether this accident wasn't an accident at all, whether poor Jean was murdered. But still, this lad's story is very strange indeed. Why didn't Jean go straight home? You're quite sure he stayed beside the car for a long time?"

"You were sleeping," I said to the lad. "You said so yourself. When you're asleep, you can lose all sense of time, you know. Sometimes you think only a few minutes have passed when half the night has gone. And then, sometimes, you can have a long dream and think you've been asleep for hours when you've only closed your eyes for a second."

"That's very true," several people said.

"Here's what I think happened," I said. "The boy was sleeping; he woke up; he heard the sound of the car; he went back to sleep. It felt as if a long time had passed when, in fact, there were no more than a few seconds between the moment Jean arrived and when he crossed the bridge. A prowler-maybe someone who knew there weren't many people at home that night since even the servant had gone-this prowler got into the mill. Jean caught him by surprise. He heard footsteps, ran outside. Jean tried to stop him. The man fought him off and, during the struggle, he pushed Jean into the water. That's what must have happened."

"We have to report it to the police," said Francois. "This is a serious matter."

They noticed that Colette was crying. The men gradually got to their feet.

"Come on, everyone out," said Maluret. "Let's get back to work."

They finished their drinks and left. Only the women remained, going about their business in the large kitchen without looking at Colette. Her father took her arm, helped her into the car and we left.

IT WAS A WARM EVENING, so I sat down on the bench outside the kitchen, from where I can see my little garden.

For a long time I only wanted it to provide me with vegetables for my soup, but for several years now I've been taking better care of it. I planted the rose bushes myself, saved the vine that was dying, dug, weeded, pruned the fruit trees. Little by little, I have become attached to this tiny piece of land. On summer evenings, at dusk, the sound of ripe fruit coming away from the trees and falling gently on to the grass fills me with a sense of happiness. Night descends . . . but you can't really call it night: the azure blue of the day grows misty, turns almost green; colour slowly melts away, leaving a delicate hue that is midway between translucent pearl and steel grey. But every shape is perfectly clear: the well, the cherry trees, the little low wall, the forest and the head of the cat who's playing at my feet, nipping at my shoe. It's then that the housekeeper goes home; she puts on the light in the kitchen and everything around me is suddenly lost in darkness. Dusk is the best time of day and, of course, the time Colette chose to come and ask for my advice. I was quite cold towards her, so cold, in fact, that she seemed disconcerted. But it's like this: when I go out and mix with other people voluntarily, I agree, more or less, to get involved in their odd lives; but when I've climbed back into my hole, I want to be left in peace, so don't come bothering me with your loves and your regrets.

"What can I do to help you?" I said to Colette, who was crying. "Nothing. I can't see what you're so tormented about. It's your parents' decision whether or not to follow up that little idiot's story. Go and talk to them. They're not children. They know about life. Tell them you had a lover and that he killed your husband . . . What exactly did happen?" "I was waiting for Marc that night. Jean wasn't supposed to get home until the next day. I still don't know what happened or why he came back early."

"You don't know why, you innocent thing? Because someone told him that you'd be meeting your lover that night, that's why."

She shuddered and lowered her head every time I said the word "lover." I could hear her sighing in the darkness. She was ashamed. But what other word could I use?

"I think it must have been the servant who told him," she said at last. "Anyway, I was expecting Marc at midnight. My husband, who'd been watching out, saw him cross the bridge and threw himself at him. But Marc was stronger." (What unintentional pride rang in her voice!) "Marc didn't want to hurt him! He was just defending himself . . . But then he fle
w i
nto a rage. He picked Jean up, dragged him to the spot where there's no handrail and hurled him into the water."

"It wasn't the first time Marc had come to your house, was it?"

"You weren't faithful to poor Jean for very long, were you?"

No reply.

"Yet no one forced you to marry him, did they?"

"No. I loved him. But Marc . . . The first time I saw him, the very first time, he could have done whatever he liked with me, do you understand? Does that seem unbelievable to you?"

"Not at all; I've known it to happen before."

"You're making fun of me. But at least understand that it wasn't in my nature to be a bad wife. If I were the kind of person who simply had affairs, I'm sure everything would seem very simple: I had an adulterous affair that ended badly, nothing more. But that's just the problem. I was supposed to have the kind of life that Mama had. I was supposed to be pure-hearted, to grow old gracefully like her, with no regrets. Then suddenly ... I remember I'd spent the day with Jean. We were so happy. I went over to Brigitte Declos's house. We were close. She was young. I didn't have any friends my own age. And-it's odd-we even look alike. I told her that several times; she laughed, but she obviously thought I was right because she used to reply, 'We could be sisters.' It was at her house that I met Marc for the first time. And I knew at once that she was his mistress, that she was i
n l
ove with him and I felt ... strangely jealous. Yes, I was jealous even before I fell in love. But jealous isn't quite the right word. No, I was envious. I desperately envied the kind of happiness that Jean couldn't give me. Not a physical happiness, you understand, but a burning in my soul, something that was beyond what I'd been calling love. I went back home. I cried all night. I hated myself. If Marc had left me alone I would have forgotten all about it, but he liked me and wouldn't stop pursuing me. So, one day, a few weeks later . .."

"I see."

"I knew it couldn't last. I understood he'd end up marrying Brigitte once her elderly husband died. I thought . . . no, actually, I didn't think at all. I loved him. I told myself that as long as Jean didn't know anything, it was as if there wasn't anything to know. Sometimes I had nightmares: I dreamt that he would find out, but only later on, much later on, when we were old. And I felt he'd forgive me. How could I have foreseen this terrible tragedy? I killed him. I killed my husband. It's because of me that he's dead. I keep saying it to myself over and over again and I feel as if I'm going mad."

"Your tears won't bring him back. Now, calm down and think about how you can avoid a scandal, since, naturally, any serious inquiry will easily reveal the truth. Everyone around here knows what really happened."

"But how can I avoid a scandal? How?"

"Your father mustn't go to the police and, to make sure he doesn't, he'll have to know ..."

"I can't! I won't tell him anything. I can't. I wouldn't dare ..."

"But you're mad. Anyone would think you were afraid of your parents; your parents love you."

"But how can you not understand? You know the life they have together, their wonderful relationship, the high ideal they have of married love. How do you think I, their daughter, could admit that I was unfaithful to my husband in a contemptible way, that I had another man in my house when my husband was away and that my lover killed him? Isn't it enough that I have one tragedy on my conscience?" she cried, bursting into tears.

Once she'd calmed down a bit, I again asked her what she wanted me to do.

"Couldn't you tell them ... ?"

"What difference would that make?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I think I'd die if I had to tell them myself. You ... You could make them understand that it was a moment of madness, that I'm not completely evil and depraved, that I myself don't even understand how I could have acted the way I did. Would you, dear Cousin Silvio?" I thought about it and replied, "No."

Poor Colette let out a cry of surprise and despair. "No? Why not?"

"For several reasons. First of all-and I can't explain why, so you'll just have to take my word for it-if this bad news came from me, as you'd like, your mother would suffer even more. Don't ask me why. I can't tell you. And second, because I don't want to get involved in your problems. I don't want to be running back and forth from one member of the family to the next calming everyone down, reportin
g w
hat was said, giving advice and spouting moral philosophy. I'm old, Colette, and all I want is a quiet life. At my age, one feels a kind of coldness . . . Of course, you can't understand that, any more than I can understand your love affairs and foolish mistakes. However hard I try, I can't see things the way you do. To you, Jean's death is a horrific catastrophe. To me . . . well, I've seen so many die. He was a poor, jealous, clumsy lad who's better off where he is. You blame yourself for his death? The way I see it, the only things to blame are chance or destiny. Your affair with Marc? Well, you got some pleasure from it. What else do you want? And the same goes for your parents; I wouldn't be able to stop myself telling them truths that would surprise and upset them, good souls that they are . . ."