Trio (13 page)

You can’t pretend it was the cat.

He went out into the courtyard, Théo was passing, taking the magazines, the maid shouted you’re wanted in the salon.

He woke up with a start, he heard a noise in the corridor, that murmur, he put on his dressing gown, the room was bathed in a pink light, he saw Théodore ransacking the safe, he called out who’s there, the other turned around and threatened him with his knife, then the old man collapsed onto the rug.

Action controlled by an invisible manitou.

Asking himself in the nocturnal splendor, December the mirror of the constellations, what’s the use of this absurd reading, but questions are out of place now, he picked up the dossier again, not being able to sleep.

Take a hair of the night that bit you.

Finally, the last hypothesis, he goes into the apartment and says in a loud voice, it’s me, uncle, and makes his way to the far end of the corridor, he knocks on the bedroom door, enters and greets the bedridden man, how are you feeling, the invalid replies lousy, will you make me some herb tea, the maid didn’t have time before she went out, the nephew goes and does the necessary in the kitchen then comes back into the bedroom, pours out the tea and says I’m in difficulties, lend me some money, the old man refuses and that precipitates the drama.

They immediately suspect the maid, they look for her, they find her at her niece’s.

He closed the dossier, retraced his steps from the courtyard to the well, from the well to the crossroads, and to the cemetery where he was lost to sight.

Madame Dubard or Buvard was positive that she had seen him go by at that time.

We’ll get there in the end with a little method.

Cut.

With stealthy steps he starts along the path to the south, which comes out at the residence after a long detour through the wood, two kilometers at the very least, the pond is on this side, an enormous stretch of water that you can barely make out behind the reeds, the path to the north follows it on the other side at first, then spans it with an ancient bridge, then arrives at the cemetery after less than a kilometer.

The wood lying to the south is very damp, horsetails and ferns, poplars, oaks on the drier terrain on the west side, but the path doesn’t go into the wood, it continues on its wide curve across the fungous terrain, it’s a good meter higher than this ground, being constructed like a dyke.

Every fifty meters, approximately, there is a kind of boundary stone both to right and to left, which is either the remains of some decorative element or the support for a fence that no longer exists, whether it was a chain fence or a rigid one, the outer edge of the path consists of slippery stones.

Finally you reach a place where you have access to the terrace by way of a second stone bridge which is shorter than the other and made from two arches dating at first sight from the reign of Henri Quatre, but no doubt built on the remains of gothic pillars whose base you can see emerging in the form of a prow.

The residence stands on a rocky platform which on this side, the west that is, has been turned into a balustrade terrace about twenty meters by sixty, and which is prolonged on either side of the edifice by two narrow strips of raised ground of recent construction which gives access to the east, and so far unrestored, side of the terrace, it formerly rose in three tiers of which only the foundations remain, all the decorative work, staircases and fountains having been destroyed during the war, beyond it the marshes begin, terrain that was cultivated in the old days, the river hasn’t been canalized and is always flooding, this is what gives its romantic appearance to the landscape on this side of the forest which obstructs the horizon.

Reached the cemetery and remained hidden behind its surrounding wall until nightfall.

While the master, descending the terrace steps, took the north path and then shortly after, having made sure that no one could see him, started along a track that crosses the heathland and ends up at the family vault.

The bad weather had come, the countryside was flooded by the never-ending rain, the mud made all the paths impassable, he shut himself up in his library and only left it at mealtimes.

At such and such a page the maid was in her kitchen, explaining to her niece.

Or that they had by no means found the maid at her niece’s, it was a fable to which some people gave credence, you can see why, but well and truly in her bedroom sleeping like a log, she hadn’t heard a thing as her bedroom was up in the attic on the servants’ floor, which implied that the trouble had been discovered that same night, immediately after the thief made his escape, as the old man had managed to free himself from his gag and alert the whole apartment building.

Another bedroom, there were several.

Or maybe he had simply telephoned his neighbors.

Or maybe these neighbors, coming home at a late hour, had seen his door open, had gone into the apartment
 
…

But Madame Dubard claimed that all this was only a fable to which some people gave credence, with her own eyes she had seen the old man turning his bedroom upside down, knocking chairs over, pulling out drawers and emptying them on the floor, in short she wondered whether he wasn’t losing his marbles, then had been told by her niece that in the days when he didn’t live on his own he’d suffered a cyclo- thermic crisis as they call it, because she lives in the block opposite, her window looks almost straight into the old boy’s bedroom, he never draws his curtains either night or day, his nephew will bear me out.

Because Théodore did indeed live with him in the old days, almost what they call illegal confinement through blackmailing the mother who didn’t have a bean, the old man dazzled her with the idea of his inheritance in exchange for the child coming to live with him and the child just had to put up with it, because how can you pretend he had any affection for his uncle, he’d have had to be round the bend, he stayed four or five years after which his mother, discovering that her brother had been taking her for a ride, there was nothing left of his former wealth, took her son back and he never again set foot in his godfather’s place.

As for the residence, which had become very dilapidated, it was only the main, Louis Treize part of it that was still habitable, with its graceless facade, its over-tall windows and its slate roof, two wings or recesses on either side were supposed to be undergoing repairs, the one on the right had a collection of reliefs from a medieval monastery in the cellars, storerooms and subterranean corridors that had been dug in the rock and which still exist under the building.

On the north side the little strip of raised ground is linked by a wooden footbridge to a little island where
 
…
 

His beautiful eyes were closing, his head was dropping, what an idea to give a child such insipid stuff to read, the old man rang for the maid who took Théo off and put him to bed.

Dossiers with plans of houses and gardens.

Or that letter addressed no one knows to whom, you keep coming across rough drafts of it.

He was following the track along the water, it was well-tended at the time, that’s to say the farmer had been given the job of cutting down the invading reeds and putting stones into the holes hollowed out by the winter weather.

Numerous moorhens and teals are frolicking on the pond.

To the left of the track, after the wood, a few maize fields, then the terrain becomes poorer and the heathland begins, and extends over something like ten kilometers.

He reaches the footbridge, seems to hesitate, looks at his watch and then continues in the direction of
 
…

It’s three in the morning, there had been a dinner the day before, cars had been seen arriving from eight o’clock on, they took the north path, you know the one, they crossed the big bridge, the only one suitable for motor vehicles, and parked on the terrace where a young manservant, at least we thought it was a manservant, helped them in their maneuvers, it was still light but night fell soon afterwards.

He was following the track along the water one morning, water lilies were in flower on the pond, the hum of a tractor could be heard in the distance, the maize was already high, when he stopped and took a letter out of his pocket, read it and then quickly put it back in his jacket because someone was coming from the opposite direction, it was the farmer, you can’t get out of the chore of talking to him about the weather and the harvests, but the farmer had a suspicious air and replied evasively.

A cock and bull story about the master’s inheritance, there was no heir, I shall have to take my family and clear out, he replied that there was nothing to be alarmed about, there’s nothing more unreliable than rumors, patience, above all, patience.

And that some other people who were killing time in the bistro had also mentioned it after Magnin, or thingummy, what was his name again, had caught sight of the fellow crossing the road, he was sitting in front of the little window, precisely.

When you go into the café you have the counter on your left, an old, very big one made of wood, marble, and zinc, there’s room for eight people to stand at it, it doesn’t go right up to the corner but stops about one and a half meters away, which reserves a quiet little corner where two or three old men sit, among them the famous Magnin, in front of their Pernod or their dry white wine, under the Byrrh calendar which depicts a lady wearing a big nineteen-thirty hat, there’s a houseplant at that end of the counter, it has always got in the way of the waiters.

From this corner of the café you have a perfect view of what goes on in the street.

Right opposite, on the other side of the street, there’s a hardware dealer, his store painted blue, on the left a baker’s shop, on the right the laundry, the day of the burglary someone remembered having seen a fellow going by at about three o’clock, wearing a raincoat and looking very odd, the habitués had had a lot of theories about that, people said the old man had died of shock but there had been nothing wrong with his heart, according to Louis the waiter.

He apparently didn’t go back to the café after his visit to the master, it was his day off, but went for a stroll over by the ponds.

Saying that the Mortin brothers were well-known around these parts, they’re respectable folk, the mother was a Levert from Rottard, the sons grew up in a good family atmosphere but they haven’t done so well in life, they must have been bone idle, education very often has that effect, the youngest, Alexandre that is, he called himself a poet, he was quite a nice lad when he was twenty, had some elegies and rondeaux published in the Thursday number of the
Fantoniard,
but he was already less fresh at thirty and at forty he irritated the readers, he couldn’t make a living from his poetry as you can well imagine, it was his parents who coughed up, and when they were no longer of this world Alexandre was on his uppers, picking up little items of what they call literary work here and there, he had no ambition, no character, no shame, it’s heartrending to see a man in that walk of life end up like that, if all the bourgeois set a similar example, he can think himself lucky now he’s fifty to have a retired brother who feeds him and pays for his laundry, good old Alfred, now there’s one who’s worth his weight in gold, he’s the one who’s most like their uncle, he was never away from his doorstep when he was a child.

Was mixing up the generations.

A missing link.

Got himself bamboozled by his ex, she ran away with a Spanish juggler who’d been doing a turn at the Swan café which goes in for a cabaret on Saturday evenings, a sad story but funny when you come to think of it, Alfred was dancing with a girl cousin while his wife was getting herself screwed in the crapper, she’d gone to have a pee in the ladies and Antonio cornered her there, he was as randy as a rabbit, he’d spotted her in the audience after his number, she was pretty at the time, it was fuck at first sight as Alexandre used to say, and pff the next day she was packing her bags with her seducer plus the jewelry she’d wormed out of that dopey Alfred over ten years, when he got back to his table he waited a while, thinking his wife must have had an upset but finally he went to see at the double U’s only she’d gone, he asked everyone if they’d seen her, and when people began to laugh he understood, it wasn’t the first time but it was the last.

What does he do all day.

The master was to be seen in the afternoons from three o’clock until half past three on the big terrace, winter and summer alike, taking what they call a constitutional, several times around the flower beds, seemingly engrossed in his thoughts.

And, the niece added, what they’re saying, is it true, is that the master is keeping little Théodore there by force, his mama would like to have him with her, but
 
…

Or that she had heard tell, how stupid can you get, that they put some sort of drug in Théo’s glass in the evenings at dinner and the child immediately fell asleep, they had to carry him up to bed, to which the aunt, bursting out laughing, replied, they, who’s they, I’m the one that puts him to bed, the dear little fellow, he’s dropping with sleep every evening, you must be mad to believe people’s tittle-tattle, what drug, I ask you, do you take the master for a monster or what, he adores Théo.

Adores, adores, that’s precisely what they were saying.

Scabrous facts, for preference.

Just like the story of you know who, that they used to tell not so very long ago, what, what story, that old swine, no other word, I’m not talking about the master, who used to hang around waiting for the children to come out of the catechism class, you remember, but what’s the connection, I ask you, what sort of mentality is that, ah, talk about the innocence of country people, all they ever think of is evil, I refuse to let you talk to me about that, do you hear.

People are such scandalmongers.

In short, she was working herself up into such a state, poor thing, that you might almost have doubted her sincerity.

And those fellows in the café are no better than the rest, you know what men are like, when it comes to certain types of morals they see red, people say that that tells you a lot about them but what was it he added, oh yes, that the man who was supposed to have been at the window and seen the malefactor running away, why not imagine that he knew him and didn’t say a word, what did anyone care about that old crackpot, let the police do their own dirty work, he isn’t the first person in our street to be murdered in four or five hundred years, just imagine, one of the oldest in the town, you might almost say that the population too have learned the hard way and don’t get into a panic at the sight of one person more or less who’s had his throat cut.