by Rumer Godden
‘Vivi?’
They’ll all be there to see me – me, Vivi.
When, that day, Emile came to Ecommoy to fetch me, I thought everything was over. Silly little me.
Emile came very quickly. I don’t have to call him ‘Monsieur’ as I had to call Monsieur Patrice. We are on a very different footing – he has to do as I like.
After the police had taken Madame Lise away someone – a woman but I don’t know who – helped me into her house. They left the body a long time in our garden until the doctor and the photographers had finished. I watched them through the window. They were police photographers – they hadn’t let the newspaper ones in yet. I was glad when Emile came. Till then the woman who took me in wouldn’t open the door; I don’t think she took me from curiosity – it was pity. The neighbours were shouting and spitting, especially Madame Robert, but this woman was kind; she helped me to the bathroom and gave me some cognac and told me not to look – but of course I looked all the time. That’s how I saw Emile.
Funny none of us at the Rue Duchesne had taken much notice of Milo before; he was just the one who looked after the money and had his office off the bar, but now I come to think of it he took notice of everything. If our tips were not enough, ‘Do you think you’re here for flea-bites?’ and he used to fine the girls for every little thing. It’s a pity he’s so small and pale and almost bald, but he’s clever. He had come to take me back at once to the Rue Duchesne.
‘But – we’ll be ruined,’ I said.
‘We shall be made,’ said Emile. ‘There’s nothing like a scandal. I’m very much obliged to our Balafrée. Where we had one client asking for you now and then, we shall have hundreds. They’ll all come, if only to look at you, but we won’t let them – not without at least four hundred dollars.’
‘Four hundred dollars a time! Me?’
‘That’s what you’ll charge. I’ll have Patrice’s flat done over for you.’
And last week he had said, ‘At the trial you’ll wear …’
‘Can I go to Balenciaga?’
‘No! No!’ Emile was horrified. ‘Don’t you see, you must be simple, a young young girl; an artful simple little dress, black perhaps, white collar and cuffs – yes, that will show up your skin. No jewellery. Your hair brushed simply. Let her go to Balenciaga – much good will it do her.’ But she didn’t. Madame Lise was in her old red suit, the suit I used to envy but it looks passé now … and she has grown so thin it hung on her. I could see her shoulder bones, her wrists like sticks and her face; only her eyes looked big, too big but the blue had gone dark, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. She was deathly pale – it was she who needed the maquillage Emile wouldn’t let me have – the scar showed horribly. The photographs showed it too, but most were of me.
I was in all the papers. I shall be the one to write my memoirs. I – not Madame Lise.
In the court Lise had hardly looked at anyone except the Président when he was speaking, the Avocat Général, Monsieur Turland, and Maître Jouvin. She had only smiled twice, once reassuringly at Marcelline, once at Zoë, but she did not even glance at the journalists or public. ‘It would help if you did,’ and Jouvin had cautioned, ‘You are not playing poker, you know.’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Lise. ‘At Sevenet I had forgotten there were people outside.’
Everyone stood while the Président, and his two assistant magistrates came in with a display of scarlet robes; Monsieur Turland was stoled in ermine. The jurors were elected; it seemed to Lise that Maitre Jouvin objected to over-many. They went to their places behind the Président and their roll was called.
On the panelled wall behind and above their array, was a bust of Marianne, symbol of the republic, with a wreath of laurel and a star; below her a gilded relief of the scales of justice and behind Lise, in the ‘box’ a great tapestry showed the child-king Louis XIII half-lying, half-sitting on his throne and wearily holding his sceptre as he was offered the crown of France by his mother, Marie de Medicis, flanked by nobles, cardinals and men-at-arms. It must have seemed to the tired little boy as wearisome a pantomime as Lise’s dossier, read aloud by the Greffier, seemed to her. The only thing vivid to her was in a small glass case in the well of the Court – Patrice’s gun …
First to be called was the ballistic expert. The automatic was taken out of its case; he showed how to pull the trigger. Lise shut her eyes, her hands clenched in her lap. She could feel that smooth little butt in her hand. Next the police doctor described the wounds … ‘He was dead when you arrived … Can you say how long?’
‘Twenty minutes – half an hour. Not more. There was nothing I could do.’
Next Luigi. ‘I don’t know anything,’ said Luigi. ‘I wasn’t there.’
They had traced him, of course; he had gone where Lise knew he would go – straight to Mamma to hand over Giovanni-Battista Giuliano; he had told Maître Jouvin that he had ordered the old woman, ‘You will not ask me one word; you will not say one word to anyone, and you will not say her name.’ ‘Her’ was Vivi – but in the Court, Luigi still looked bewildered and, ‘He was useless,’ said Jacques Jouvin, ‘almost a puppet in the hands of Monsieur Turland,’ especially, it seemed to Lise, of the Président – almost, not quite; the Président, for all his acumen and experience, did not understand the depth of Luigi’s hurt.
‘You saw Madame Lise with the gun in her hand?’ but Luigi had shaken his head.
‘No … I suppose I was only looking at her …’
‘Your wife?’
‘At Mademoiselle Vivi – and him. I … didn’t see anything else,’ but most of what Luigi said made it easy for the prosecution.
‘Did Madame Lise encourage you to marry Mademoiselle Vivi?’
‘She did everything.’ Luigi, with his great calf eyes, was innocently trying to pay tribute to Lise. ‘She made it possible. Hid it from him …’ He would not name Patrice.
‘And she sent your wife, Vivi, money?’
‘She isn’t my wife … but Madame was generous.’
‘She sent Vivi money – to keep her quiet.’
‘But …’ Luigi was genuinely astonished. ‘But it was for Giovanni-Battista Giuliano, the baby.’
The crowd laughed and the Président called, ‘Silence or I shall have to clear the court.’ Then he turned to Luigi.
‘The money came regularly long before you had the baby … Madame gave you a lorry.’
Luigi nodded miserably. ‘Yes or no? Answer.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’
‘Why?’
‘So that I could keep an eye on that … that …’ He could not go on.
‘So Madame Lise was aware …’ A ripple ran through the court. ‘Very well aware …’
Jacques tried to mitigate the effect. ‘Each time you came to the Rue Duchesne, you gave the impression both to Madame Marcelline, the cook, and to Madame Lise, that you were happy.’
‘I was, but …’ Luigi hesitated and Lise remembered how once he had asked her in a whisper, ‘Excuse that I should mention it, but Marcelline has such a sharp tongue. Madame Lise, do babies have to … have to smell?’ It had come with a rush and he blushed.
‘Were happy then until …?’
Luigi looked at the Président. ‘I had begun to wonder,’ and he added, ‘I told Madame Lise …’
‘He only meant he told me about Giovanni’s smelliness.’ Lise tried afterwards to exonerate Luigi to Jouvin.
‘Only …’ groaned Jouvin in despair.
Most of the girls from the Rue Duchesne were called and almost all were favourable. ‘Madame was good. She seldom interfered.’
‘Except if you attracted, shall we say, notice, from Monsieur Patrice?’ suggested Monsieur Turland. It was Zoë who, once again innocently, said, ‘Oh, that was only over Vivi.’
In the Rue Duchesne Zoë, next to Lise, was the senior by presence and experience, a dark girl but buxomly built and a favourite with many clients. She was also one of the few who
was not really afraid of Patrice – in fact she scorned him – and she was fond of Lise.
‘Madame Lise was jealous of Vivi?’
‘Well, it’s not very nice to be put out of your room, is it?’ asked Zoë, ‘pushed up to the servants’ quarters, have somebody else in your bed? He even gave Madame’s furs to Vivi, and most of her jewellery. That skunk!’
‘Oh Zoë! Zoë! Dear Zoë!’ Jacques Jouvin bowed his head.
‘And Madame Lise said nothing?’ The Président seemed to intervene with relish.
‘No, but she felt. One could see how she felt.’
‘Felt – and did nothing, or seemed to do nothing – very dangerous.’
Jouvin was on his feet. ‘Pardon, Monsieur le Président, but I really must object …’ and indeed the Président interfered. ‘Monsieur Turland, you must not lead the witness.’
‘Pardon. I withdraw the question.’ But the suggestion had taken root.
Zoë, perspicacious, tried to retrieve it. ‘I just meant that Madame Lise was reserved. She kept her place, we kept ours – even when she was toppled …’
‘Toppled?’
‘I mean with Monsieur Patrice. She kept her head high but we knew by her eyes,’ and Zoë lost her temper. ‘Why are you asking such things? You men! Men like you!’ Intrepid Zoë dared to hurl that at the Président. ‘You think girls like us have no feelings. We do. We do. We do.’
The court had to be cleared before the hearing could go on.
Marcelline’s evidence was as sterling as Zoë’s, ‘and did nearly as much damage,’ said poor Maître Jouvin, ‘if not more.’
‘I put it to you that you are talking like a faithful old servant – deliberately blind.’
‘I may be faithful, Monsieur, but I am not blind.’ Marcelline was sturdy. ‘And I tell you, the moment Vivi came down those stairs and saw Luigi, Madame did everything she could to bring them together.’
‘Exactly,’ and the Avocat Général hitched up the robe on his shoulders with complete satisfaction. Marcelline glared.
‘And afterwards, every week faithfully, she sent Vivi the money she had promised.’ Marcelline heard Jouvin’s groan and turned on the Président. ‘I tell you, for Madame that young father and mother and baby were like the Holy Family.’
To her bewilderment titters ran round the court.
‘The Holy Family! I should say a marriage of convenience, if ever there were one.’
‘No. No. You had only to see Vivi’s letters.’
‘If only we could – but not one can be produced. Pity.’
The sarcasm was lost. ‘Madame burnt them – for Vivi’s sake.’
‘You say she burnt them.’
‘I don’t say it. She did.’
‘Madame Marcelline!’ The Président was astute. ‘It’s clear you are a good woman – and devoted,’ he said again, ‘but you cannot deny that Madame Lise was in love with Monsieur Patrice.’
It was then that Marcelline came near, for the first time, to engaging the sympathy of the court for Lise. ‘And if she was,’ demanded Marcelline. Not to be downed, and forgetting the august bench she faced, she set her arms akimbo as she did in her own kitchen. ‘She loved Monsieur Patrice, so what? She loved that worthless garbage Vivi too. She loved Luigi and the baby, perhaps him most of all, but she made no claims – indeed she never saw him. She loved the girls; at least she was kind to all; she loved Coco her dog. She even loved me. What is wrong with love?’ and Marcelline broke down.
For a moment there was silence in court. Then, ‘No questions,’ said Maître Jouvin and the Président said gently to Marcelline, ‘Madame, you may stand down.’
Lise had expected no quarter from Emile, and got none. ‘You see, I would never have anything to do with him,’ she told Maître Jouvin.
Emile took his revenge, or tried to; this was one witness Maître Jouvin could dispose of with ease. After the routine questions about police, the Rue Duchesne, Ecommoy, Patrice’s body, Jouvin said, ‘You were never on intimate terms with Madame Lise and knew little about her. On your own admission you had few dealings with the girls and none at all with young Mademoiselle Vivi. You didn’t even know about her marriage with Luigi Branzano until the police called you, and we have evidence that you were not in your brother’s confidence.’
‘I handled all the money.’
‘Not Madame Lise’s. It seems she almost ignored you.’
‘He tried to step into Patrice’s shoes,’ Lise had said. Emile had once come to her: ‘We could work together, Lise, you and I,’ and, ‘We could not,’ Lise had answered him clearly, ‘but it was always Emile’s ambition to be another Patrice, so he couldn’t forgive me. Now he has his weapon in Vivi.’
‘The evidence that really counts, God help us,’ said Jouvin.
‘But she’s under oath. She cannot tell lies here.’
‘Lise, for a woman of your age and experience, you are curiously naïve.’
‘But … I believe, deep down, Vivi is good. She …’
‘Sent for Patrice.’ Jacques Jouvin had no illusions.
‘She was tempted,’ said Lise. ‘Luigi left her too much alone. I had only just given him the lorry and he was still under contract to his firm. Vivi was too young and thoughtless to have a baby. I know that now, but she is affectionate,’ Lise insisted.
‘Affectionate! Did she come to see you at Sevenet, in more than two years of detention?’
‘N – no. Probably Emile wouldn’t let her. Marcelline says he runs everything now. He has made Vivi a sort of queen and she’s easily spoiled, but you’ll see in the end; she’ll corroborate everything I say.’
‘Humph!’ said Maître Jouvin.
‘Madame Branzano – no, you are so young, I shall say Vivi. We shall have to ask you a few questions. They are, as I know and the Court knows, painful questions.’ The Président was dulcet in his sympathy. ‘Try and answer like a brave girl,’ and Monsieur Turland asked gently, ‘Is it true that Madame Lise, shall we say advised you to marry Luigi Branzano?’
‘Advised?’ The grey eyes opened wide, as wide as they were capable of going, thought Lise. ‘She said she would buy me a wedding dress, a trousseau, give me a dot. I would have a ring and a house. I … God forgive me, Monsieur le Président, I had never had, or dreamed of, anything like that. I asked about Monsieur Patrice. He had been kind to me and there is loyalty … but she …’ Vivi looked down and fluttered her lashes.
‘She?’
‘Told me Monsieur Patrice would get tired of me; that he was growing old and capricious; he often changed his mind. Then I would soon be out of the Rue Duchesne – he always turned against his favourites. Oh, poor Monsieur Patrice!’ and Vivi broke into sobs.
‘So she frightened you – and bribed you.’
Maître Jouvin again jumped up: ‘Pardon. Mais, Monsieur le Président, permettez-moi d’objecter,’ and the Président had to say again, ‘You must not put suggestions.’
‘Then let us say she helped you with the marriage?’
‘She helped us both – Luigi and me, and she – Madame Lise – dressed me for the wedding; we had to take a room in a hotel so no one from the house would see. She took me to the register office. She gave us a wedding breakfast afterwards and put us on the train. She sent the money …’
‘Why did you send the money?’ Monsieur Jouvin had asked Lise in his questioning for the defence.
‘To make it possible for them,’ Lise had said truthfully. ‘Luigi earned well but someone like Vivi was out of his means. He was used to peasant women – his family are peasants – and I guessed his mother and sisters did not need much. I don’t suppose any of them had ever seen cosmetics. Vivi had been pampered and she would never have been content – and I so longed for her to be happy. Then …’ and Lise’s voice softened, ‘I made it a little more to help get ready for the baby.’
They were coming to him now – Giovanni-Battista Giuliano. ‘I think Madame Lise wanted a baby of her own.’ As Vivi put in her pois
oned darts, Lise shut her eyes: that fleecy coat, the little boots. ‘Monsieur le Président,’ said Vivi, turning towards him in his high seat. ‘She couldn’t leave us alone. From the moment my baby was born, she and Luigi …’
‘So the marriage wasn’t a happy one?’
‘No.’ It was a sorrowful whisper.
‘And yet those letters? What were these famous letters?’
Vivi answered in clever astonishment. ‘Letters? They were receipts. Madame Lise is a good business woman. She always wanted a receipt.’
‘The horrible part,’ Lise told Maître Jouvin in the midday break, ‘is that everything Vivi said is true – in a different light. In a way those letters were receipts, endorsements that I was getting what I hoped I was paying for.’
‘What I cannot understand is the spite,’ said Maître Jouvin.
‘Nor do I, but … in English, if you change one letter in the word “spite”, make the “t” a “c”, it becomes “spice”, and I’m beginning to see that spite is the spice of Vivi’s life – a kind of irresistible naughtiness.’
‘Naughtiness! Deliberate wickedness!’
‘Tell us, Vivi,’ the Président was still all sympathy. ‘Did Luigi Branzano ever beat you?’
‘No, never, but …’
‘But?’
‘It hurt. He was so – big.’ There were no titters; the court was hushed. ‘Monsieur, they said I lay in bed all day because I was lazy, but sometimes I couldn’t get up. The poor little baby was crying but I couldn’t, I couldn’t.’
Some of the women in the gallery began to weep.
Maître Jouvin did his best. ‘If you couldn’t get up, what about the soldiers?’ – he had called Madame Robert – but ‘Soldiers?’ asked Vivi, as if she could not remember.
‘Yes, soldiers in the café.’
‘You wouldn’t understand – you, or her. I went to them for someone who wouldn’t scold, who would be copains – comrades. They were young too, a little drunk, I know, but we were friends.’