“Simon has been with the store for thirty-three years. He is almost an institution by now. He knows all of our better customers by name and people expect to…”
“Oh, for goodness sake, if I'd wanted a speech I would have asked for one. Where is my husband? He left the house at six-thirty this morning. Don't tell me he's not here yet.”
“He's probably somewhere in the store. He likes to make his rounds and check every department before he comes upstairs.”
“You mean to say he hasn't set foot in the office yet?” Hélène Richoux screeched. “How long is this inspection supposed to take? When he bothers to show up, tell him I'm waiting.” She dismissed Jeanne with a flick of a fine suede glove and opened the door to her husband's office.
Jeanne groaned in despair. There would be an argument, and she would be caught in the middle. Hélène Richoux had a habit of pulling everything and everybody into her private affairs. A few minutes later, still wearing his overcoat and carrying his briefcase, Marcel walked in.
“Your wife,” Jeanne whispered and she pointed to the door of his office. He looked stricken for a moment. He was guilty of nothing more than an early breakfast meeting with an advertising agency executive, but he knew from experience that Hélène would never believe him. She was insanely jealous. He hurried back out. A moment later he reappeared without the coat and briefcase.
“Jeanne,” he said loudly. “I've just been through the designer department and I've noticed that…” Before he had a chance to finish, the door flew open and Hélène stepped out.
“Where were you? I've been waiting for hours.”
“You couldn't have, my dear. The store hasn't been open for more than a half hour,” replied her husband. He walked into his office and closed the door behind them.
Through the wall, Jeanne could hear voices arguing but the words were muffled. I hope she nails the bastard, she thought. She turned back to her work and soon the sound of her typewriter drowned out the voices.
* * *
The next morning Marcel walked into the formal dining room and was greeted by the pleasant aroma of freshly baked scones and percolating coffee.
“Bonjour Marcel,” his wife called out to him from across the room.
Marcel forced himself to smile. “Good morning, Hélène.” He walked over to the sideboard, poured himself a cup, and sat down.
“Is that all you're having? Agnès made those from scratch for you, and you won't even touch them?” She spoke with her mouth full, waving her jelly covered knife toward the basket of croissants. After a lifetime of being one of the wealthiest women on the continent, Hélène Richoux prided herself on the fact that she did not need to stand on formality and etiquette. “Manners,” she was fond of saying, “are for the poor. With my money, people will damn well love me as I am.”
Marcel felt himself grow tense. It was amazing how even the sound of his wife's voice had that effect on him. He thought wearily of how he would rather be working. “No,” he said. “I'm not hungry.” He sipped his coffee under the watchful eye of his wife.
Fifteen minutes later when he drove off in his Citröen, Hélène watched discreetly from behind the velvet drapes. She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock. We will see at what time he arrives at work this morning. She walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
Hélène put on her buttery voice. “Jeanne? I'm sorry to be calling you at home. I want you to do me a favor.”
* * *
It was nearly nine o'clock. The coffee was cold in the percolator and the fresh croissants had long dried out in the oven. Marcel had not stopped by. Brigitte picked up her breakfast plate and scraped off the crumbs into the garbage. At that moment, the telephone rang and she picked it up. “Hello,” she answered breathlessly.
“Brigitte, I'm sorry I wasn't able to stop by this morning.” Marcel sounded contrite.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“No, no. Don't worry; I'll be there tomorrow morning, I promise.” Marcel said a quick goodbye and hung up. For a long time, he sat in his office and stared at the telephone. Lately, Marcel found it nearly impossible to be in Brigitte's company without succumbing to his desire. Brigitte was young and beautiful even in her advanced state of pregnancy. Until the baby was born, though, he had no choice but to wait. The frustration was driving him wild. Be patient. It’s only a few more months, he told himself. It felt like an eternity.
* * *
Jeanne Leblanc looked down at the notes on the desk in front of her. Neatly typed on two sheets of paper, was her report of Marcel Latreille's comings and goings over the last few weeks. She sighed deeply and wondered what to do. After all, as Hélène Richoux had pointed out, Jeanne was her employee. If she gave Madame Richoux the information, she would only be doing her job. Besides, though the notes showed a pattern of late arrivals and early leavings, the information on its own would prove nothing. She picked up the sheets of paper, folded them neatly and slid them into the envelope.
* * *
The next morning, Marcel arrived at Brigitte's apartment carrying three large gift-wrapped boxes. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“Marcel, vraiement, you shouldn't. What is it?” asked Brigitte, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Open them and you'll see.” Marcel put the boxes down.
Brigitte tore off the paper. She lifted the cover off the largest of the boxes. Inside was a bunch of long wooden sticks and a bag of nuts and screws. She looked at Marcel, puzzled.
“Open the rest,” he said sounding like an excited child.
In the second box, Brigitte found what looked like a wooden briefcase. Finally, in the third she found a complete set of Grumbaker oil paints, brushes, linseed oil, and paint thinner. “It's an easel and paint box,” she exclaimed. “Pour l'amour de Dieu Marcel, what do you think I'm going to do with all of this?” asked Brigitte.
“Paint,” said Marcel, laughing. “I can't stand to see you so lonely all the time. I've been trying to think of something you can do to keep yourself busy. Since you enjoy visiting the Louvre so much, art supplies seemed like a good idea.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If you think it's silly…”
“You read my mind,” exclaimed Brigitte, excited. “The same idea had occurred to me!”
For lack of a better place, the easel and the paint box were set up near the window in the living room. The light is good here, thought Brigitte. It's the perfect spot.
Over the next few days, every time she walked by the living room, there was the easel, waiting, beckoning. A few times Brigitte went so far as to pick up a brush or a tube of paint, but the thought of putting color on a canvas and of trying to create something from her own hands filled her with apprehension. Images of the magnificent paintings she had admired in the Louvre spun in her mind. How can I even think of doing this? I don't know the first thing about painting. At first tentatively, then with growing confidence, she began.
“You did this?” exclaimed Marcel when he saw Brigitte's first tableau. It was a landscape, with softly rolling hills, cows grazing peacefully in the background and big puffy white clouds in a blue sky. “This is pretty good, not bad at all, considering this is your first effort,” he said. “You have a good sense of form and color.”
“I don't like it,” pronounced Brigitte. “Something is missing. I don't know what. I was trying to remember a place I once saw as a child. It would have been easier if I'd had the picture in front of me.” She picked up a drop cloth and covered the painting. “Enough of that. Have you had any breakfast?”
“Maybe this painting idea wasn't so good after all,” said Marcel as he followed Brigitte to the kitchen.
“Why not?” she asked, surprised.
“Do you realize this is the first time you haven't had breakfast ready and waiting for me when I got here?” He was laughing as he said it, but Brigitte saw the disappointment in his eyes.
* * *
Hélène Richoux was in her of
fice, large and sunny with brocade draperies and Louis VXI furniture. She threw the financial report across the room. For the last half hour, she had read and reread the damn thing and she was not pleased. The problem was Marcel. He was simply not doing his job. It was obvious to her that lately he was up to something. He had been leaving the house early and coming home late for months. His excuse was always the same. Work! Yet, when she called the office to speak to him, he was rarely there. With the amount of hours he claimed to be spending at the store, business should be thriving, but this financial report said otherwise. Sales had fallen by four percent. Her mind wandered back to the report Marcel's secretary had sent her. It proved nothing. In view of the fact that all she had were suspicions, Hélène had chosen to say nothing until she had hard proof. If the son of a bitch is cheating on me, he will pay for it dearly. Nobody makes a fool of Hélène Richoux and gets away with it.
Hélène Richoux looked at the number on the old, decrepit building. 333 rue de La Commune. This is it. Hélène Richoux crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it back into her purse. On the door the sign said, “Investigation Rosaire.” She snapped her purse shut and walked in. The office was small and dusty. She sniffed the air disdainfully and slammed the door shut behind her.
“Anybody here?” she called out. She rapped her knuckles against the reception desk. “Anybody here?” she shouted again.
A moment later, a pudgy middle-aged man appeared from the other room. “My secretary is out. Are you the two o'clock?”
“From the looks of this dump, your secretary has probably been out for a few years,” quipped Hélène arrogantly.
The disheveled man did not appear offended. He chuckled. “Hey, that's a pretty good sense of observation you got there.” He let Madame Richoux lead the way into his office. “I'm Rosaire. What can I do for you?”
She waited for him to close the door and told him.
Rosaire listened while carefully appraising his new client. Although her clothes were mismatched, they were of the finest quality. This lady has bucks. As Hélène spoke, Rosaire's smile grew. “Trust me. I have a lot of experience in these matters. It might take a bit of time, but you can count on me. Of course, it will cost some money.”
His client opened her purse and pulled out a thick roll of bills. “How much do you need?” she asked. And when Rosaire quoted the amount, she did not even blink.
This is one investigation I won't finish in a hurry, the rumpled man told himself as he counted out the money. I'd be a damned fool not to bleed this one for a while.
* * *
Jeanne sat in her office, lost in a daydream. Lately it had become more and more apparent to her that Marcel Latreille was completely unnecessary at Richoux. There was nothing he did that she couldn't do herself. All he does is give the orders. I'm the one who does all the real work. If she could get rid of him somehow, maybe she could persuade Madame Richoux to make her the new director.
She opened her drawer and pulled out Brigitte's address on the rue George V. For some reason she had kept it. Instinctively she had always believed that it might come in handy someday. Now she knew exactly in which way she could use the information. She pulled out a new sheet of typing paper and rolled it into the Olivetti.
Dear Madame Richoux,
I think it is my duty to inform you that…
Five minutes later she signed it anonymously, “A friend,” pulled the paper out of the typewriter and folded the letter into a plain white envelope. She could already see herself sitting behind Marcel's mahogany desk.
* * *
Brigitte sat by the living room window, absorbed in her new art book. She had just finished reading a wonderful section about Montmartre, the small, humble area of Paris which had been home to so many great artists. The photographs fascinated her. Now, there is a place where I would love to live, she though and immediately felt foolish. Why should she be tempted by such a run-down area when she was living in luxury?
She sighed and flipped to the next chapter, which offered a study of many different types of photography. There were portraits and still lives, black and white shots, and colors photos. Every picture was stunning. For a long time, she studied the way groupings of objects created interesting shapes and forms, how juxtaposed colors looked brighter and stronger, and the way light and shadow were used to give illusions of depth. Ideas crowded her mind. She closed the book and stood up. Suddenly the baby kicked sharply. She stopped and patted her swollen belly. “My…my. We are active today, aren't we?” From the window, she noticed a man standing on the street below. He looked so sad, standing there by himself. I guess other people are lonely, too.
* * *
From across the street Rosaire pulled out a camera. A picture is worth a thousand words. This one will be worth a thousand francs.
* * *
On her palette Brigitte mixed the colors, thinning them with oil and turpentine until she had the shade and consistency she wanted. Then she dipped her brush in the paint and with a steady hand applied it to the canvas.
“You're taking this painting business much too seriously,” commented Marcel from behind her.
Brigitte's heart nearly stopped. She'd been so engrossed in her painting she hadn't heard him come in. “Marcel, please don't do that. Tell me when you're coming over. You nearly scared me to death,” she said when she managed to catch her breath. She wiped her hands on the cloth and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, I just stopped by for a minute.”
Brigitte waited and Marcel had the uncomfortable impression that she wanted him to leave. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“This! The painting.” He looked exasperated.
“It was a brilliant idea, Marcel. Look at me. Don't I seem happier these days?”
It is true that she looks well, thought Marcel. Brigitte's face was rounder, filled out by the weight she had gained. Her eyes shone and her skin glowed. The pregnancy was now advanced and obvious. Her stomach was large and her breasts full and heavy, yet even dressed in her splattered painter's overalls she was attractive.
Desire ran through his body. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to hold her in his arms, to let his mouth cover hers. Christ, she is beautiful! “Do you know that you are a very desirable young woman ma chérie?” he asked, his voice strangled with emotion.
Brigitte put down her paint brush, suddenly afraid. I'm being ridiculous. This is Marcel, my friend. “Voyons, Marcel. Look at me. I am fat; my hair is a mess…”
“…and you have never looked so lovely.” He walked over and pulled Brigitte into his arms. “Brigitte, you must know by now the way I feel about you.”
Brigitte pulled away from him, shocked.
Marcel continued, almost begging. “For months now, you have been driving me crazy, playing with me, teasing me, and always keeping me at arm’s length. I can't take any more. I want you and I'll be damned if I'll wait for you any longer.”
Brigitte felt dizzy. “Marcel, please. Marcel…” She felt his hands on her breasts, his mouth on hers, his tongue pressing into her mouth. Oh Mon Dieu, this can't be happening. His hands were all over her, touching, feeling, fondling. She pushed him away again. “Marcel, please. What are you doing?”
“I'm doing what I've wanted to do for a long time. Oh, Brigitte. Come here ma chérie. Juste une petite caresse,” he said, his voice strangled with desire.
Brigitte listened in horror. She had heard those same words a hundred times, a thousand times. They were Lucien's words, now coming out of Marcel's mouth. “No!” she screamed. “Go away. Just go away and leave me alone.” Panicked, she ran to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
Furious, Marcel grabbed his coat and stormed out. At the door he turned angrily. “Listen, you conniving little bitch, don't tell me you didn't know what the deal was. After everything I've done for you, you owe me. You bette
r realize that I mean business, and you are going to pay up.” A moment later, still cowering in the bathroom, Brigitte heard the front door slam shut.
For a long time, Brigitte stayed huddled behind the shower curtain, weeping. Now what? she asked herself desperately. What she had feared most had finally happened. She was alone again. There was nobody she could rely on but herself. She looked down at her protruding abdomen. Don’t worry little one. I’ll take care of you. Wearily, she picked herself up, got her purse, and counted out what was left of the money Marcel had given her. If I am very careful, I could make it last six months. She went to the closet, grabbed her coat and walked out. Fifteen minutes later she was back with the newspaper. She spread it open and with a red pencil began to circle the apartments for rent.
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