She Who Was No More

by Pierre Boileau

  He gazed at the shining carafe which magnified a piece of bread till it looked more like a sponge. Antibes… A smart shop—for he was to set up on his own too. In the window would be air guns for underwater shooting and all the gear for frogmen. Rich customers. And, with the sea in front and the sunshine, your mind would be full of pleasant, easy thoughts that didn’t make you feel guilty. Banished the fogs of the north. Everything would be different. He himself would be a different man. Lucienne had promised he would. As though seeing the future in a crystal, Ravinel saw himself sauntering along the beach road in white flannels. His face was tanned. People turned to look at him.

  The locomotive whistled again, almost under the window. Ravinel rubbed his eyes, went and pulled the curtain aside, and peered out. Yes that was the Paris-Quimper express all right. A five-minute stop at Nantes. Next stop Redon. And Mireille herself was sitting in one of those coaches whose windows threw long rectangles of light onto the wet road. There were empty compartments with lace antimacassars, mirrors, and pictures of beauty spots along the line. First class. And there were compartments full of picnicking sailors—third.

  Glimpse after glimpse swept past, looking quite unreal and nothing whatever to do with Mireille. In the very last carriage a man was asleep with a newspaper over his face. When the caboose was out of sight, Ravinel suddenly noticed that they were no longer playing the phonograph in the Smoelen. The lights were out. No portholes visible now.

  Mireille would be already getting out of the train. In a minute she would be walking alone, her high heels sounding in the empty streets. Perhaps she would have her revolver in her bag. He made a practice of leaving it with her when he went on one of his rounds. Not that it was any use, for she didn’t know how to use it. In any case there’d be no occasion for her to do so.

  Ravinel held the carafe up to the light. The water was absolutely clear. No sign of any deposit. He dipped his finger in and licked it. A slight taste, but much too slight for anybody to notice unless he was on the lookout…

  Twenty to eleven.

  He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of ham. He didn’t dare leave his chair now. It had been settled: Mireille was to surprise him sitting at the kitchen table, alone, tired, depressed.

  And suddenly he heard those heels of hers on the pavement. He couldn’t be mistaken. Not that she made a lot of noise. It was only just audible, yet he could have recognized her step from among a thousand others, a slightly jaunty step made staccato by the narrowness of her skirt. The gate hardly creaked at all. Then silence. Mireille walked up to the front door on tiptoe and turned the handle. Suddenly aware that he was forgetting to eat, Ravinel helped himself to some more ham. Try as he might, he couldn’t sit squarely at the table. He was afraid of that door behind his back. Mireille was certainly on the other side of it by now, listening intently. Ravinel coughed, made a noise with the bottle as he poured out some more wine, and rustled the sheets of paper. Was she listening for the sound of kisses?

  She threw open the door. He swung round.

  ‘Mireille!’

  Her coat was open, revealing a navy blue suit in which she looked as slim as a boy. Tucked under her arm was her bag, the big black one with her initials, M.R. With her thin hand she pulled up her gloves. She wasn’t looking at her husband, but inspecting the room—the sideboard, the chairs, the closed window, the table, the orange standing on the box of Camembert, the carafe. Advancing a couple of steps, she lifted her little veil, in which raindrops had been caught as in a spider’s web.

  ‘Where is she? Tell me where she is.’

  Ravinel got up slowly, looking puzzled.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘That woman—I know all about it… It’s no use lying to me.’

  Mechanically he pushed his chair under the table. With a slight stoop, his forehead puckered, his hands hanging open at his sides, he faced her. He heard himself laugh.

  ‘My dear Mireille! What are you talking about? What on earth’s come over you?’

  At that she sank onto a chair, buried her head in her arm, and burst into sobs, her hair straggling over his plate of ham. Ravinel was taken aback. He couldn’t help being touched, and he stood over her, patting her shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Mireille. Calm yourself. Then you can tell me all about it… So you thought I was carrying on with another woman, did you? My poor child! You’d better see for yourself whether there’s any sign of one. Yes, you must. I insist. You can explain things afterwards.’

  He lifted her, holding her up, led her away, while she clung to him, weeping on his chest.

  ‘We’ll have a good look round. You needn’t be afraid.’

  He kicked open the bedroom door and switched on the light. He spoke loudly, with affectionate roughness.

  ‘Look! Just the bed and the wardrobe. Nobody under the bed. Nobody in the wardrobe. And can you smell anything? Take a good sniff. Just a little stale tobacco smoke, because I always have a pipe before going to sleep. As for any scent, not a trace! Now for the bathroom. After that we’ll do the kitchen. Oh yes, we will.’

  He showed her everything, even opening the refrigerator. Mireille dabbed her eyes and began to smile through her tears. He drew her back into the dining room.

  ‘Well? Convinced? What a silly girl! Not that I mind your being jealous. It’s rather sweet. But to come on a journey like this! And in November. Somebody must have been telling you some dreadful stories.’

  He sat down, but instantly jumped up again.

  ‘There! I’d forgotten the garage.’

  ‘No, Fernand. You mustn’t joke about it.’

  ‘All right. Now tell me all about it. Here, take this chair. I’ll switch on the heater. Tired?… But I don’t need to ask. You look washed out. Now sit back and relax.’

  He brought the heater close to her, relieved her of her hat, and sat down on the arm of her chair.

  ‘An anonymous letter, I suppose?’

  ‘If it had only been that. It was Lucienne who wrote.’

  ‘Lucienne! Have you got the letter with you?’

  ‘I should think I have.’

  She opened her bag and produced an envelope. He snatched it out of her hand.

  ‘Good heavens! That’s her writing all right.’

  ‘What’s more she made no bones about signing it.’

  He pretended to read the letter he knew by heart, the three pages which Lucienne had written the day before, sitting in front of him.

  She’s a little red-haired thing hardly out of her teens, a typist who works at the Crédit Lyonnais. She comes to see him every evening. I hesitated for a long time before making up my mind to write to you, but in the end…

  Ravinel was on his feet now, pacing up and down the room with his fist clenched.

  ‘It’s past all belief. Lucienne must have gone clean out of her head.’

  He slipped the letter into his pocket, trying to make the action seem absent-minded. He looked at the clock.

  ‘It’s a bit late now to get hold of her. And in any case she’ll be at the hospital as it’s Wednesday. It’s a pity. We’d get this business cleared up at once. But she’ll have to answer for it, believe me.’

  He stopped abruptly and opened his arms in a gesture of incomprehension.

  ‘Someone who calls herself a friend… Someone whom we’ve looked upon almost as one of the family… To do a thing like that!’

  He poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it at a gulp.

  ‘Would you like something to eat? You mustn’t let it put you off your food.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Some wine, then?’

  ‘No. Just a glass of water.’

  ‘If you’d rather.’

  He took the carafe with a firm hand, filled up a tumbler, and stood it by her.

  ‘Unless someone’s copied her handwriting…’

  ‘Go on! I wouldn’t be taken in for a moment. And look at the notepaper. And the postmark. Nantes. Posted yesterda
y. I got it at four o’clock this afternoon. You can imagine what a blow it was.’

  She wiped her cheeks. She stretched her hand out towards the glass.

  ‘I didn’t hesitate a second, but made straight for the station.’

  ‘That’s you all over.’

  Gently Ravinel stroked her hair.

  ‘Perhaps the truth is that Lucienne’s jealous,’ he murmured. ‘She can see we’re very united. There are people like that—can’t bear to see others happy… We may have known her a long time, but have we any idea what really goes on inside her?… Though I must say she looked after you wonderfully three years ago. There was nothing she wouldn’t do. In fact, she really saved your life. You know, things looked pretty black at one moment. Still, that’s her job admittedly. And of course you might have pulled through anyhow. People don’t often die of typhoid these days…’

  ‘Yes, but she was so kind. Thought of everything. And the way she had me taken all the way to Paris in an ambulance.’

  ‘All the same, she might have been thinking even then of making mischief between us… For now I come to think of it, I suppose she did take a fancy to me. Sometimes I was surprised we met so often, but it never really struck me—not in that light… Do you think she can have fallen in love with me?’

  For the first time Mireille’s face lit up.

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘An old duffer like you?’

  She drank the water slowly and put the empty glass back on the table. Then, seeing Fernand had turned pale, she took his hand and added:

  ‘Don’t be cross. I was only teasing. It’s my turn to take it out on somebody!’

  TWO

  ‘You didn’t tell your brother about it, I hope.’

  ‘Of course not. I hadn’t time. Besides I’d have been too ashamed.’

  ‘So nobody knows you’ve come here?’

  ‘Nobody. It’s nobody’s business but mine.’

  Ravinel lifted the carafe.

  ‘A little more.’

  In a leisurely way he filled the glass again and began gathering up his papers. Maison Blache et Lehuédé. For a moment he was pensive.

  ‘I can’t see any other explanation,’ he said at last. ‘Lucienne wants to come between us. Look back. It’s just a year since she had that temporary job in Paris. Why shouldn’t she have lived in the hospital? Or in a hotel? No, she had to come and live with us.’

  ‘We were bound to invite her. After all she’d done for me…’

  ‘I know. I don’t deny it. But that doesn’t alter the fact that she fastened on us like a leech. And if she’d stayed much longer she’d have been ruling the roost. You were beginning to obey her like a servant.’

  ‘You can talk! I suppose she never sent you running errands!’

  ‘I wasn’t the one to cook special dishes for her.’

  ‘But you typed out her letters all right.’

  ‘A strange girl,’ said Ravinel. ‘Whatever could she hope for in sending you that letter. She must have guessed you’d come here post-haste. And she knew I’d be alone when you got here and she’d be found out at once.’

  Mireille seemed disturbed and Ravinel experienced a little pleasure. That she should find excuses for Lucienne was something he couldn’t allow.

  ‘How could she do such a thing?’ muttered Mireille. ‘I’m sure she’s good at heart.’

  ‘Good! You obviously don’t know her.’

  ‘I know her as well as you do. You can’t deny that.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. I’ve seen her here on the job. You’ve no idea what she’s like in her own world. With the nurses for instance… Treats them like dirt.’

  ‘Go on!’ She tried to get up, but fell back into the armchair. She ran her hand across her forehead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a little giddy.’

  ‘If you fell ill here, that would put the lid on it. Anyhow it wouldn’t be Lucienne who looked after you this time. I’d see to that.’

  Mireille yawned and with a tired gesture brushed her hair back from her forehead.

  ‘Help me up, will you? I’d better lie down for a bit. I’m so tired, I…’

  He lifted her up and she lurched forward, grasping the corner of the table.

  ‘My poor child. To get in a state like that…’

  He dragged her into the bedroom, her legs giving beneath her and trailing behind. One shoe fell off. Ravinel was out of breath when he finally rolled her onto the bed. She was white as a sheet and seemed to have difficulty in breathing.

  ‘I think—I made a mistake to…’

  It was no more than a whisper, but there was still a flicker of life in her eyes.

  ‘Weren’t you to have seen Germain or Marthe one of these days?’ he asked.

  ‘Not till next week.’

  He stretched her out and threw a blanket over her legs. Her eyes followed him all the time, and a sudden misgiving came into them as a thought tried laboriously to take shape in her mind. ‘Fernand!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That glass of…’

  There was no longer any point in lying to her. He began to move away from the bed, still followed by those eyes, those imploring eyes.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ he said.

  Her eyelids quivered, once, twice. There was now only the tiniest glint of life in her pupils. Then it too went out and her eyes slowly shut. Ravinel ran his hand roughly over his face like a man who has walked into a spider’s web. Mireille was motionless now. Her reddened lips were parted showing a row of pearly teeth.

  He left the room and groped his way across the hall. He felt a bit unsteady. On his retina was stamped the image of Mireille’s eyes which, sometimes glowing, sometimes fading, seemed to follow him through the darkness.

  In a few quick strides he was at the garden gate, which Mireille had left ajar.

  ‘Lucienne!’ he called softly.

  She promptly emerged from a shadow.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’

  She led the way back into the house.

  ‘See to the bath,’ she ordered.

  But, instead of doing so, he followed her into the bedroom, picked up the stray shoe and put it on the mantelpiece, which he had to clutch to steady himself. Lucienne lifted up Mireille’s eyelids one after the other.

  He could see the white eyeballs, on which the lusterless iris seemed to be painted. He wanted to look away, but he was too fascinated. He knew that every movement Lucienne made was being engraved on his memory like some gruesome tattooing.

  He had once read a magazine article about the truth drug. Supposing the police were to…

  He trembled, folded his hands, then, horrified by this gesture of supplication, put them quickly behind his back. Lucienne was trying to find Mireille’s pulse. Her long nervous fingers felt their way like some nimble creature looking for the artery before biting. In a moment they were still. They had found the place. Without turning her head she said again:

  ‘Go on. Get the bath ready.’

  That was her doctor’s voice, curt, authoritative, the voice that was so reassuring when he thought there was something the matter with his heart. Finally he dragged himself away, went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The water gushed into the tub with such a frightening noise that he instinctively reduced the flow.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ called out Lucienne.

  He didn’t answer and she came to the door.

  ‘The splash,’ he muttered. ‘It might wake her up.’

  She didn’t bother to answer. Defiantly, she went up to the tub and turned both taps full on. Then she went back to the bedroom. Steadily the level of the water rose, greenish bubbling water over which hovered a cloud of steam, which condensed in a fine mist on the upper part of the tub, on the walls, and on the glass shelf over the washbasin. On the mirror too, and in it Ravinel could now only see a misty, unrecognizable image of himself. He put his hand in the water as though testing the tempe
rature, as if he really was getting a bath ready for someone.

  When he stood up, his temples were throbbing. The truth had suddenly struck him. Yes, struck him. That was the right word. It came like a blow, like a punch in the face. He realized what he was doing and it made him tremble from head to foot.

  Fortunately it didn’t last. In a few seconds it was all quite different. It wasn’t he, Ravinel, who was guilty. No one was. Mireille had drunk a soporific. A bathtub was filling up. That was all. There was nothing terrible about it, and nothing which had anything to do with crime.

  Admittedly he had poured out a glass for Mireille. But he had poured many a glass before. It was an everyday matter and didn’t feel any different this time. Mireille had drunk the stuff herself. She needn’t have. And that made it more or less her own fault. Like an illness contracted through one’s own folly. Poor Mireille. No one was responsible for the simple reason that no one hated her. No one could—she was too insignificant.

  And yet, when he went back into the room… It was like some ridiculous dream. Perhaps he really was dreaming. No, he wasn’t. The water still poured into the bath—with a deeper sound now—and the body was still on the bed. The shoe, too, was still on the mantelpiece. Lucienne was calmly rummaging in Mireille’s handbag.

  ‘I say!’ exclaimed Ravinel.

  ‘I was just looking for her ticket. She may well have taken a return. We have to think of everything. What about my letter?’

  ‘She gave it me. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ she demanded.

  ‘In my pocket.’

  ‘Burn it. Straight away. You might forget. There, in that ashtray by the bed.’

  Ravinel held the envelope up and lit the corner with his lighter. He didn’t drop it until it began to burn his fingers. The blackened paper curled up on the ashtray.

  ‘Did she tell anybody she was coming?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘What about Germain?’

  ‘No. I asked her specially.’