According to Rose, who always knows better than anyone else, little Clara had had her stomach slashed with a knife, and the finger-prints on her neck and throat, where she had been strangled could still be clearly seen. Her private parts were terribly torn and swollen, as if she had been forced—the comparison was Rose’s—‘with the handle of a woodman’s axe’. One could still see, from the crushing and trampling of the undergrowth, the place where the crime had taken place. It must have happened at least a week ago, for the corpse was almost completely decomposed.
Despite the genuine horror inspired by this murder, I could tell that for most of these creatures rape, and the obscene pictures that it evokes, were not exactly an excuse for, but at least an attenuation of the crime, since rape is at least a form of love. They had every kind of explanation for it. Someone remembered how little Clara used to spend entire days in the forest, going there in spring to pick lilies of the valley and anemones to make into bouquets for the ladies of the town, or gathering fungi to sell on Sundays in the market. And in summer, there would be mushrooms, and other kinds of flowers. But what could she have been doing in the forest at this time of the year, when there was nothing to find?
One of them said sententiously:
‘What I don’t understand, is why her father didn’t seem to be worried about her disappearing? It might have been him that did it.’
To which another, equally sententious, replied:
‘But if he’d wanted to do such a thing he wouldn’t have had to take her into the forest, surely?’
Mademoiselle intervened:
‘The whole thing is very fishy! But I …’ And, with the air of someone who is in possession of terrible secrets, she continued in a lower voice: ‘Well, of course, I don’t actually know, and I wouldn’t like to say for certain, but—and she broke off, leaving our curiosity in suspense.
‘But what? What then?’ everyone demanded, craning their necks and with mouths agape.
‘Well… I shouldn’t be at all surprised … if it was’—by now we were all on tenterhooks—’if it was Monsieur Lanlaire … Anyway that’s what I think,’ she concluded with a ferocious expression.
While some of them protested and others suspended judgment, I insisted that Monsieur Lanlaire was quite incapable of such a crime and explained:
‘What, him, poor man? Christ, he’d be much too scared.’
But Rose insisted even more venomously:
‘Incapable? Fiddlesticks! What about the Jézureau girl? … and the little girl at Valentin? … and the Dougère child? You’re forgetting them. Incapable, indeed!’
‘They were quite different … It wasn’t the same thing at all.’
Despite their hatred for Monsieur Lanlaire, they were not prepared to go as far as Rose and actually accuse him of murder. Violating little girls who consented to be violated was one thing. But to kill them? Oh no, that was unthinkable. But Rose angrily persisted. Foaming at the mouth, striking the table with her huge, soft hands and throwing herself about in her chair, she exclaimed:
‘But I tell you, it was him. I’m certain of it.’
Whereupon Madame Gouin, who up to now had remained neutral, declared in her colourless voice:
‘In matters of this kind, one can never be certain. But as regards the Jézureau girl, I can assure you it was the purest fluke that he didn’t kill her.’
Despite this authoritative opinion and Rose’s unwillingness to drop the question, one after the other they reviewed the crime. And there was certainly no lack of suspects—anyone they happened to dislike, anyone they were jealous of or had a grudge against, came under suspicion. Finally, the pale little woman with the rat face suggested:
‘You know those two Franciscan monks who were here last week? Well, I didn’t like the look of them at all, with their dirty beards and begging from everybody …Why shouldn’t it have been one of them?’
But while the rest of us continued to accuse everybody in turn, Rose stubbornly repeated: ‘But I tell you—it was him.’
On the way back, I stopped for a moment in the saddle room where Joseph was polishing the harness. Above some shelves containing neat rows of blacking bottles and tins of saddle soap, a picture of Drumont was pinned to the wooden partition, and to make it more imposing, Joseph had recently decorated it with a laurel wreath. On the opposite wall, a portrait of the Pope was almost completely hidden by a horse blanket hanging from a nail. One shelf was filled with anti-Semitic pamphlets and patriotic songs, and amongst the brooms in a corner of the room stood Joseph’s club.
Abruptly, and from no other motive than curiosity, I asked Joseph:
‘Have you heard about little Clara’s body being found in the forest? And that she had been raped before she was murdered?’
Joseph was unable to repress a gesture of surprise. Or was it surprise? For, furtive as this movement was, it seemed to me that at mention of little Clara he had actually shuddered, though he quickly pulled himself together.
‘Yes,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘I know. Someone in the village told me this morning …’
And, calm and indifferent again, he continued methodically polishing the harness with a big black rag. I noticed the strength of his arms, and was impressed by the supple power of his biceps and the whiteness of his skin. I could not see his eyes beneath the lowered lids, for he kept them obstinately fixed on his work. But I saw his mouth, that great wide mouth, and his enormous jaws like those of some cruel and sensual animal. And my heart seemed to miss a beat.
‘Does anyone know who did it?’ I asked.
Shrugging his shoulders, Joseph replied in a voice that was half joking, half serious: ‘Tramps, I expect … some of those dirty Jews.’
And after a short silence, he added: ‘But they’ll never get picked up, you just see! They’ve got all the magistrates bribed.’
He hung up the harness he had finished polishing on its hook and, pointing to the picture of Drumont beneath his laurel wreath, he added:
‘There’s the fellow we need … he’d sort them out!’
I don’t know why, but when I left him I had a curious feeling of uneasiness … There’s one thing, this business of Clara is going to give everybody something to talk about for the next week or so.
Sometimes when Madame is out, and I feel more than usually bored, I go to the garden gate, where Mademoiselle Rose comes to meet me. Always on the watch, she never misses a thing, and notes all our comings and goings. She has grown fatter and softer than ever, and redder in the face. Her gross lips hang more loosely, and her bodice can scarcely contain that vast surge of her bosom. More and more she is haunted by obscene thoughts … that’s all she can ever think about, all she lives for. Every time we meet, she immediately glances at my belly, and the first thing she says in that greasy voice of hers is: ‘Remember what I told you. Directly you notice the first sign, go to Madame Gouin’s straight away, straight away.’
It’s an absolute obsession with her, a mania. It irritates me and I reply:
‘But why should I notice anything? I don’t even know anybody here.’
‘Oh,’ says she, ‘but it’s a misfortune that can happen so quickly. A moment’s carelessness, only too natural under the circumstances, and there you are! Sometimes you don’t even know it has happened. Why, I’ve seen plenty of them just like you, quite certain everything was all right … until it was too late. But with Madame Gouin you can rest easy. Why, she’s a blessing to the whole district.’
And as her imagination kindles, she grows uglier than ever, her whole body heaving with sensuality.
‘Round here at one time, my dear, the whole place was simply full of children, the town was lousy with them. It was a perfect scandal! The streets used to be swarming with them, like chickens in a farmyard … squalling at every door, kicking up a row … kids wherever you looked. But nowadays, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, you scarcely see one.’
Then, with a slimy smile, she went on: ‘Not that the
girls don’t have just as much fun. My goodness no! On the contrary. You don’t go out in the evening, but if you were to walk down the chestnut avenue any evening about nine o’clock, you’d see for yourself. Why, there’s a couple on every bench! People can’t get along without it. But it’s a nuisance to have swarms of children shitting about all over the place. Well, now they don’t have them … they just don’t have them any more. And it’s Madame Gouin they have to thank for it. Of course, it’s not very pleasant, but it’s soon over … If I was in your place, I wouldn’t hesitate, dear. A pretty girl like you, so distinguished-looking, and with such a lovely figure … Why, having a kid would be sheer murder.’
‘Oh, you needn’t worry. I have no intention of having one.’
‘Of course, of course, no one wants to have one … only … tell me something. Do you really mean old Lanlaire has never tried it on?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well, I must say that surprises me, with his reputation. Not even that morning in the garden, when he had his arms round you?’
‘I assure you …’
Mademoiselle Rose shook her head. ‘I can see you don’t mean to tell me … You don’t trust me. Well, that’s your business, only I know what I know.’
In the end I got annoyed and exclaimed: ‘Oh, for goodness sake! Do you imagine I sleep with everybody, even with dirty old men?’
In a chilly tone of voice, she replied: ‘All right, my girl, but there’s no need to get your rag out. Some of the old ones are just as good as the youngsters. I know it’s none of my business … That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
And in a nasty voice, more vinegar than honey, she wound up: ‘After all, that may well be. Doubtless Monsieur Lanlaire prefers them not quite so old. Everyone to his taste, my girl.’
Some peasants passed along the road and hailed Mademoiselle Rose respectfully: ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Rose. And how’s the captain these days?’
‘Very well, thank you. He’s just drawing some wine.’
Then some gentry went by and they, too, saluted Mademoiselle Rose, respectfully: ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Rose. And the captain?’
‘Splendid, thank you. Most kind of you, I’m sure.’
Next came the village priest, walking slowly, and shaking his head. At the sight of Mademoiselle Rose he bowed, smiled, closed his prayer book and came to a halt:
‘Ah, there you are, my child! And how is the captain?’
‘Thank you, Father, going along nicely. At the moment the captain is busy in the cellar.’
‘That’s good, that’s good. I hope the gardening’s going well, and that he will have some nice flowers for us again for Corpus Christi?’
‘Why, of course he will, Father.’
‘Give him my best wishes then, my child.’
‘And the same to you, Father.’
And as he turned away and opened his prayer book again, the priest called over his shoulder: ‘Good-bye, then, good-bye! What a pity we haven’t got more parishioners like you.’
And I returned to the house feeling sad and discouraged, and filled with hatred. Leaving the abominable creature to enjoy her triumph, greeted by everyone, respected by everyone, fat and happy … hideously happy. Before long I expect the parson will put her on a pedestal in the church, like a saint, with a candle on either side and a golden halo …
28 OCTOBER
One person who intrigues me is Joseph. He behaves in the most mysterious manner, and I have no idea of what’s really going on at the bottom of that crazy, taciturn heart. But it is certainly something out of the ordinary. Sometimes he stares at me with such terrifying fixity that I have to drop my eyes. He has a way of walking, with slow, gliding steps, that frightens me … you’d think he was dragging a weight chained to his ankles, or at least the memory of it … Is it prison he’s remembering, or a monastery? Both perhaps … His back also scares me, and that thick, powerful neck, like a piece of old leather, with the hard tendons standing out beneath it like knotted ropes. On the back of his neck I have noticed a lump of hard muscle, like you find in wolves and other wild animals that carry their prey in their jaws.
Apart from his hatred of the Jews, which indicates a love of violence and taste for bloodshed, on the whole he is rather reserved about other questions. Indeed, it’s difficult to know what he thinks. Unlike most servants, he doesn’t display that combination of noisy boasting and professional humility that is typical of them; nor do you ever hear him complaining about his employers and running them down. He respects them without servility, and seems to be devoted to them without ostentation. He never grumbles about work, however irksome. He’s extremely ingenious, and can turn his hand to anything, even the most difficult and unusual jobs. He treats the Priory as though it belonged to him, looks after it, guards it jealously and is ready to defend it. He’s always driving away beggars and tramps, distrustful and threatening as a mastiff. He’s like one of those old-time retainers from before the Revolution … Locally, people say, ‘You don’t find servants like him nowadays … he’s an absolute treasure’; and they are always trying to persuade him to leave the Lanlaires. He’s had plenty of good offers from Louviers, Eldeuf and Rouen, but he always turns them down, without boasting about it … My goodness, no! … He’s been here fifteen years, and looks upon the house as his own; and as long as they want him he’ll stay. Even Madame, suspicious as she is and always ready to see the worst in everybody, has complete confidence in him. She may not trust another soul, but she certainly trusts Joseph, and counts on his honesty and devotion. ‘A treasure! He’d go through fire for us!’ says she. And, despite her meanness, she overwhelms him with presents and little acts of generosity.
All the same, I distrust the man. He makes me uneasy, and at the same time interests me prodigiously. Sometimes I have seen really terrifying things lurking in the obscure depths of his eyes. Since I have become interested in him, he no longer strikes me as being a coarse, stupid, loutish peasant, as I used to think when I first got here … I ought to have examined him more carefully. Now I regard him as being unusually subtle and crafty … better than subtle, worse than crafty … I don’t quite know how to sum him up. Moreover, as a result of seeing him every day, I no longer find him so old and ugly. Habit has the same effect on people as on things: it is like a fog that gradually obliterates the features of a face and hides its defects. After a while you don’t seem to notice that a hunchback has got a hump! … But there’s something else—all the new and deeper sides of Joseph that I’m beginning to discover. And they disturb me profoundly. For a woman, what constitutes masculine beauty is not the regularity of purity of a man’s features. It is something much less obvious, and much more difficult to define … a kind of affinity, a sexual ambience, pungent, terrifying and intoxicating, which, for some women, becomes an irresistible obsession. And it is precisely this ambience that I am conscious of when I am with Joseph. The other day I was admiring the way he picked up a barrel of wine, playing with it like a child with a rubber ball. His exceptional strength, the suppleness of his movements, the formidable thrust of his loins and the athletic power of his shoulders set me musing. This strange and morbid curiosity, a mixture of fear and attraction, that the enigma of his shiftiness, of his grim silences, and impressive glances arouses in me is intensified by his muscular strength and bull-like solidity. Though I can’t properly explain it, I feel that between Joseph and myself there is some secret relationship, a moral and physical bond, that binds us a little closer every day.
From the window of the linen room where I work I sometimes watch him in the garden. There he is, crouching down with his face almost level with the ground, or perhaps kneeling by the wall with the espaliers on it … and suddenly he has disappeared … vanished into thin air. Before you can turn your head, he’s just not there. Does he sink into the ground? Can he pass through walls? … No and then I have to go into the garden to give him a message from Madame. I can’t see him anywhere, and I call him.
‘Joseph, Joseph, where are you?’
No answer. I call again:
‘Joseph, Joseph, where are you?’
And suddenly, without a sound, Joseph appears before me from behind a tree or a vegetable bed. He’s just there, like sunlight, with his grim, closed face, his hair plastered to his skull and his hairy chest showing through the open neck of his shirt… How does he manage it? … Where has he come from?
‘Oh Joseph, you frightened me …’ and the terrifying smile that plays on his lips and in his eyes gleams like the swift flash of a knife. I think this man must really be the devil himself! …
Little Clara’s rape has become the talk of the neighbourhood, and whetted everyone’s curiosity. People snatch the papers from each other’s hands to read about it. La Libre Parole roundly denounces the Jews, and asserts that it is a ritual murder. The magistrates have arrived, and are carrying out enquiries and taking statements; dozens of people have been interrogated. But nobody knows anything. Rose’s accusation of Monsieur Lanlaire has got around but no one believes it—they just shrug their shoulders. Yesterday the police arrested a poor pedlar, but he had no difficulty in proving that he was not in the neighbourhood at the time of the crime. The father, having been inculpated by all the gossip-mongers, had been completely exonerated … all the reports on him were completely favourable. So the police have been unable to find the slightest evidence to work on. Apparently the crime had impressed the magistrates by the amazing skill with which it was carried out … probably by professionals from Paris. It also appears that the public prosecutor is conducting the case in a very leisurely fashion, mainly as a matter of form. There’s nothing particularly thrilling about the murder of a poor man’s daughter … So probably nothing will be discovered, and before long, like so many others, the case will be classified as ‘unsolved’.
I shouldn’t be surprised if Madame thought her husband was guilty … It may be a joke, but she ought to know him better than anyone else. Ever since she heard the news she has been behaving most oddly. The way she keeps looking at her husband isn’t natural. I have noticed during meals that, every time the bell rings, she gives a little start … Today, after lunch, when the master said he was going out, she stopped him.
The Diary of a Chambermaid Page 16