‘Jean-Paul! … Stop! … I simply want to talk to you …!’
The cemetery had disappeared behind them, along with the village. Cresting the hillock, the Gastin boy began going down the other side; Maigret saw only his upper body, then his head. An instant later, he saw nothing, until he reached the hilltop himself and then, at last, he discovered the shimmering expanse of the sea, with what looked to him like an island in the distance, or else the Pointe de l’Aiguillon, and a few fishing boats with brown sails seemingly suspended in space.
Jean-Paul was still walking. There was no path to the left or right. At the shore stood five or six red-roofed shacks where the mussel-farmers stored their equipment.
Maigret made up his mind.
‘Jean-Paul!’
His voice sounded so strange that he barely recognized it and turned around to make sure no one was watching him. He noticed a brief hitch in the child’s pace; surprise at his call had almost halted the boy in hesitation, but he was again walking as fast as ever, almost running, now in a panic.
Feeling like a big brute tormenting a defenceless creature, the inspector was ashamed when he called out again.
‘Hey, kid, stop …’
The most ridiculous part was that he was out of breath, and his voice was not carrying. He and the boy were still about the same distance apart. To get closer, he would have had to run.
What was Jean-Paul hoping for? That Maigret would become discouraged and turn back?
It was more plausible that he wasn’t thinking at all, that he was hurrying straight ahead as if this were the sole way to escape from danger. At the end of the road there was only the sea, with its shining fringe rolling across the shingle beach.
‘Jean-Paul …’
At this point, it would have been just as stupid to give up as to go on.
The boy reached the shore, paused before following the path that must have led to the next village and halted at last, with his back to Maigret. Only when he heard the inspector’s footsteps coming quite close did he turn to face him.
He was not red, but pale, with pinched nostrils. He was clearly panting rapidly, lips parted, and you felt you could hear his heart beating like that of a bird held in your hand.
Maigret said nothing. He could not find anything to say just then and he, too, needed to catch his breath.
Jean-Paul, no longer looking at him, had turned towards the sea. They both stared at it, and the silence lasted for a long time, as long as it took for their hearts to calm down to a steady pulse.
Then Maigret walked a few steps to sit down on a pile of posts that smelled of fresh pine. He took off his hat, mopped his brow unashamedly and, very slowly, filled a pipe.
‘You walk fast,’ he finally murmured.
The boy, standing stiff-legged like a young rooster, did not reply.
‘Won’t you come over and sit near me?’
‘I don’t feel like sitting down.’
‘Are you angry?’
With a brief glance at him, Jean-Paul asked:
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to talk to you without your mother around. At your house, it’s impossible. When I spotted you over the cemetery wall, I thought it might be a good opportunity.’
He left long silences between his sentences, to avoid spooking the boy.
‘What were you looking at?’
‘The people.’
‘You couldn’t look at everyone all at once. I’m sure you were looking at someone in particular. Am I right?’
Jean-Paul did not say yes, or deny anything, either.
‘Do you usually go to church?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my parents don’t go.’
With an adult, this would have been easier. It had been a long time since Maigret was a child. He had neither son nor daughter, yet he had to try to think like this boy.
‘Did you tell your mother you were going out this morning?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t want her to know?’
‘She would have stopped me.’
‘You took advantage of her being upstairs to slip out quietly? And you made your way along the alleys?’
‘I wanted to see.’
‘What?’
It wasn’t the crowd, or the coffin being lowered into the grave. Maigret would have sworn to that.
He remembered the surplice billowing in the breeze, the cross Marcel carried, recalled the time when he was barely seven and had wanted so much to be an altar boy. He’d had to wait two years. He, too, had carried the silver cross, trotting in front of a country hearse towards the cemetery.
‘You wanted to see Marcel?’
He saw him give a start, with a child’s astonishment at abruptly learning that a grown-up can read his mind.
‘Why aren’t you friends with Marcel?’
‘I’m not friends with anybody.’
‘You don’t like anybody?’
‘I’m the teacher’s son, I already told you.’
‘You’d rather be the son of the tinsmith, or the mayor, or any farmer at all from the village?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
He had to be careful not to frighten him, which might well have set him off again at a run. And yet it wasn’t simply the fear of Maigret catching him again that was keeping the boy there. He was faster than the inspector. Now that they were face to face, did he not feel a kind of relief? And, deep in his heart, a secret longing to talk to someone?
‘You still don’t want to sit down?’
‘I’d rather keep standing.’
‘Are you sorry that your father is in prison?’
Instead of replying ‘No’ right away, he remained silent.
‘You aren’t sad about that?’
And Maigret felt as if he were stalking his objective, advancing only with infinite caution. He mustn’t move too quickly. Even a single word could so threaten the child that he would reveal nothing further.
‘Does it hurt you not to be like the others?’
‘Why am I not like them? Who told you that?’
‘Suppose I have a son, who goes to school, plays in the neighbourhood streets. His classmates would say, “He’s the inspector’s son!”
‘And because of that, they wouldn’t treat him exactly like the other children. You see?
‘You, you’re the teacher’s son.’
The youngster shot him a longer look this time, more penetrating than before.
‘Would you have liked to be an altar boy?’
He could tell he was on the wrong track. It was hard to say how he knew. Certain words provoked barely perceptible reactions. With others, it was as if Jean-Paul were closing up.
‘Does Marcel have friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘When they’re together, do they talk quietly? Exchange secrets, start laughing while they’re looking at the rest of the kids?’
That had come back to him from so long ago that it surprised him. It was the first time, he felt, that he was encountering such vivid memories of his own childhood, to the point of smelling the scent of the schoolyard back then, when the lilacs were in bloom.
‘Did you try to be their friend?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘No reason.’
‘You thought they wouldn’t go along?’
‘Why are you asking me these questions?’
‘Because your father is in prison. He did not shoot at Léonie Birard.’
He was studying the youngster’s eyes, and the boy did not flinch.
‘You know perfectly well he didn’t. Therefore, someone else did. Would you like your father to be convicted?’
‘No.’
There had been a barely perceptible hesitation, and Maigret decided not to press the point. He had already considered that idea, in his corner the previous evening, wondering if, deep in his heart, Jean-Paul might be angry at his father and mother for n
ot being like the other parents.
Not only because his father was a teacher. They did not go to church. They did not dress him like the other children. Their house was not like the other houses, either, and their life was different. His mother never laughed but slipped around like a shadow, humble and repentant. She had done something very bad, and a woman had shot at her, to punish her.
That woman had not been convicted, which proved that she was right. Perhaps Jean-Paul loved them anyway? Whether he liked it or not, he belonged to the clan, was of their kind.
All that was difficult to express. There were nuances that disappeared when things were put into words.
‘Suppose you know something that’s enough to get your father out of prison …’
With no idea himself where he was going, Maigret was surprised to see Jean-Paul look up abruptly to stare at him in a mixture of fright and admiration. The boy opened his mouth, almost spoke, but didn’t, clenching his fists in the effort to control himself.
‘You see, I’m only trying to understand. I don’t know your father well, but I am convinced that he’s a man who does not lie. He says that he did not set foot inside the tool shed on Tuesday morning, and I believe him.’
Jean-Paul, still on the defensive, kept watching the inspector.
‘On the other hand, Marcel Sellier seems like a good boy. When he does happen to lie, he goes right away to confession so as not to remain in a state of sin. He has no reason to accuse your father, who, instead of being unfair to him, always grades him at the head of the class, when you should be there.
‘Well, Marcel claims he saw your father coming out of the tool shed.’
It was like a bubble rising suddenly to the surface of a pond. His head hanging, Jean-Paul said firmly, without looking at Maigret:
‘He’s lying.’
‘You’re sure he’s lying, right? It isn’t some vague feeling. And you aren’t saying it from jealousy, either.’
‘I’m not jealous of him.’
‘Why didn’t you say this sooner?’
‘What?’
‘That Marcel was lying.’
‘Because!’
‘You’re certain that he did not see your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come?’
Maigret had expected tears, perhaps shouting, but Jean-Paul’s eyes were dry behind his glasses. Except that his body had relaxed. There was no longer anything aggressive in his attitude. He was not even on the defensive any more.
The only sign of his surrender was that, feeling wobbly on his feet, he sat down a short distance from the inspector.
‘I saw him.’
‘Whom did you see?’
‘Marcel.’
‘Where? When?’
‘In the classroom, near the window.’
‘Tell me precisely what happened.’
‘Nothing happened. Monsieur Piedbœuf came to get my father. They both went off towards the village hall office.’
‘You saw them?’
‘Yes. I could see them from my seat. They disappeared through the arch at the entrance, and all the pupils began to fool around, as usual.’
‘You did not leave your bench?’
‘No.’
‘You never misbehave?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Where was Marcel?’
‘Near the first window on the left, the one that overlooks the schoolyard and the gardens.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Nothing. He was looking outside.’
‘He doesn’t misbehave either?’
‘Not often.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘When Joseph is there.’
‘The butcher’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were sitting at your desk. Marcel was near the left-hand window. Your father and Monsieur Piedbœuf were in the office. That is correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘The windows were open?’
‘They were closed.’
‘You could still hear the noise from the forge?’
‘I think so. I’m almost certain.’
‘What happened?’
‘Marcel left the window and crossed the classroom.’
‘To go where?’
‘To one of the two windows on the right.’
‘The one from which one can see the rear of Madame Birard’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your father was still at the village hall at that moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Marcel said nothing?’
‘No. He looked out of the window.’
‘Do you know what he was looking at?’
‘From my seat, I couldn’t see.’
‘Do you usually watch Marcel?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, embarrassed.
This time, Maigret did not ask why. They were two good pupils and, because Jean-Paul was the teacher’s son, the other one was top of the class. Marcel was an altar boy and wore a surplice on Sundays. Marcel had friends, had Joseph, the butcher’s son, with whom he whispered during playtimes and at whose house he went to play after class.
‘Did you see your father leave the village hall?’
‘He walked towards our house and went inside to drink a cup of coffee.’
‘Was the kitchen window open?’
‘No. I know he had a cup of coffee. He always does.’
‘Your mother was downstairs?’
‘Upstairs, in my room. I could see her through the open window.’
‘Your father, after that, did not go into the tool shed?’
‘No. He crossed the courtyard to return to the classroom.’
‘Marcel was still in front of the window, the one on the right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say so right away?’
‘When?’
Maigret took the time to put his remembered evidence in order.
‘Wait. Léonie Birard’s body was discovered at the beginning of the afternoon. You children were not questioned right away?’
‘We were not questioned that day. We didn’t know exactly what was going on. We only saw people coming and going. Then we noticed the gendarmes.’
On Tuesday, in short, no one had openly accused the teacher. Marcel Sellier had not said anything, either to his parents or to anyone else. So Jean-Paul had no reason or chance to contradict him.
‘Were you there, the next day, when they questioned Marcel?’
‘No. They had us come to the office one by one.’
‘And when he returned on Thursday morning? When did you learn that he claimed to have seen your father?’
‘I don’t remember any more.’
‘On Tuesday evening did your parents talk about Léonie Birard?’
‘Only after I was in bed. I heard part of what they were saying. My mother claimed that it was her fault. My father was saying that, no, it was only rumours, that they would understand that he’d had nothing to do with it.’
‘Why, when you learned that Marcel was accusing him, did you not protest?’
‘They wouldn’t have believed me.’
Once again, Maigret thought he detected a nuance, a hint, something too subtle to be expressed. The youngster had not been glad to see his father accused. He had probably felt a certain shame at knowing he was in prison. But hadn’t there been, on his part, a kind of cowardice? Hadn’t he wanted, however slightly, without admitting it to himself, to distance himself from his parents?
He resented them for not being like other parents. Well, now they were more different from them than ever, and the village, instead of keeping them at a distance, was turning against them.
Jean-Paul envied Marcel.
Was he going to accuse him in turn?
In the end, he had not given in to a bad impulse. It was not cowardice, or in any case, not simply cowardice.
Couldn’t one say that on the contrary, it was a form of loyalty towards the other
s?
He had the opportunity to contradict Marcel, to call him a liar. It was easy. Perhaps it seemed to him too easy, a cheap victory?
Besides, the fact remained that no one would believe him. Who would have, in the village, if he had shown up to say:
‘Sellier lied. My father did not come out of the tool shed. I saw him go into the house, leave it and cross the courtyard. And at that moment, Marcel was in front of the opposite window, from which he couldn’t see him.’
‘You didn’t say anything to your mother?’
‘No.’
‘Is she crying a lot?’
‘She doesn’t cry.’
That was worse. Maigret imagined the atmosphere in the house over the last few days.
‘Why did you come out this morning?’
‘To see.’
‘To see Marcel?’
‘Maybe.’
And perhaps, without realizing it, because of a need to participate, even from afar, in the life of the village? Wasn’t he suffocating, in the little house at the end of the courtyard, where they no longer dared open the windows?
‘Are you going to tell the lieutenant?’
‘First I have to see Marcel.’
‘Will you be telling him I was the one who said something?’
‘Would you rather he didn’t know that?’
‘Yes.’
At heart, he had not completely given up on being admitted one day to the select group of Marcel, Joseph and the others.
‘I believe he will tell me the truth without my needing to bring you into it. Other classmates must have seen which window he was standing at.’
‘They were fooling around.’
‘All of them?’
‘Except for one of the girls, Louise Boncœur.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘She doesn’t join in with the others?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think she was looking at Marcel?’
For the first time, his face flushed, especially the ears.
‘She’s always looking at him,’ he stammered.
Was it because she was in love with the tinsmith’s son that she had not contradicted him or, more simply, because she hadn’t distinguished between one window and another? Marcel had affirmed that he had been standing near the window. His classmates had probably not thought about which window he meant.
‘We should be getting back to the village,’ observed the inspector.
Maigret Goes to School Page 10