Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  He wondered if in part all his rushing about were simply an escape from her pressing condition. Now that he considered it, her condition frightened him almost more than anything else. Yes, more than Durand’s suspicions about Raf, not to mention Caro’s savage behaviour.

  ‘James, I’m sorry to keep you. It was unavoidable.’

  James started. He hadn’t heard the door opening.

  ‘And you look distressed. What’s happened? I’ve asked Pierre to bring tea.’

  Marguerite’s cheeks were flushed as if she had just emerged from a hot bath, her hair piled high, moist ringlets framing her face. Her scent wafted towards him. It made him think of lilies of the valley, shaded woods, like her celandine dress. She was their nymph. He shunted the thought aside as she gestured him towards a chair.

  ‘I’m on an errand,’ he said more bluntly than he would have wished.

  ‘Oh? An unpleasant one, I take it.’

  ‘Slightly delicate.’

  ‘You can be frank with me.’ Irony glimmered over her features. ‘Though I confess, I feel there has been rather too much unpleasantness these last days.’

  ‘Yes. Far too much.’ He surveyed her to catch her mood, then cleared his throat. ‘It’s an errand from Chief Inspector Durand.’

  ‘Oh dear, our good Chief Inspector has you in his clutches.’

  ‘That’s not how I would have put it.’

  ‘Put it for me then.’ There was suddenly something hard in her voice.

  ‘You remember I told you about that blackmailing letter Durand had found, the one from which he asked Raf to write out a sentence?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  Pierre appeared with a tray. She waved him into haste, murmured an impatient, ‘Leave us, Pierre.’ He was hardly out of the room before she intoned in a cold voice, ‘The letter. What about it?’

  ‘Apparently, the writing matches your own.’

  She slumped back into her chair, then changed her mind and got up. Her movements were agitated. ‘I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’

  He wished he could see her face, but she was standing by the window, her back to him. At last he said softly, ‘So it really was written by you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it was.’ She turned, her face pale, tears crowding her eyes. ‘So long ago. I had all but let myself forget it.’ She sat down at a distance from him, smoothed her dress with trembling fingers.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Years.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain, James.’ She was up again.

  ‘Perhaps you’d rather explain to Durand.’ He hadn’t intended the note of cruelty that had crept up on him unawares. He had been thinking of Olympe, the corrupt moves her older and undoubtedly admired benefactress had engaged her in.

  She stared at him, calm now as if his coldness had bestowed that on her. ‘Perhaps that would indeed be better, but since he’s sent you … Only promise me that you won’t breathe a word to Raf.’

  ‘I can’t honestly do that, Marguerite. Not until I know what it’s about.’

  Her calm crumbled. She was digging her nails into the palm of her hand. ‘Pour us some tea, James.’

  She took the cup gratefully and drank a few mouthfuls. Only then did he notice that his pipe and tobacco had been discreetly placed on the tray. He reached for them.

  ‘It’s not easy to talk about. And you will hate me afterwards.’ Her eyes beseeched him. Then she shrugged and put the cup down on the table. ‘What matter!’

  He could see from her face that it mattered acutely. ‘Give me the freedom to decide on that myself, Marguerite.’

  ‘Ah, freedom!’ She was up again, pacing restlessly. ‘That’s what it was all about. Years ago, as I told you. I can hardly remember myself then. I was a different person. Baffled by everything. Vulnerable. Small inside. Shamed. Trapped. Like a dog who had leapt into a pit sniffing a banquet of delicacies and found only fleas and rats, but was too small to leap out again, could only bark helplessly, endlessly, scratch until the sores bled.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. You’ve never been there. Never felt the pain of entrapment.’ She stared at him for a moment, her eyes savage. ‘It started before I met Rachel, as she was then. I think I told you that my marriage was not going well. One of the reasons it was not going well was that my husband had a taste for boys.’

  James gasped.

  ‘Oh, it’s hardly unusual. Though I didn’t know about such things then. I was really remarkably innocent. I only knew that he had stopped loving me. Had grown cold. Never touched me.’ She shivered. ‘I was doubly desperate because I thought then that I wanted a child. In my reckless grief, I started to follow him. Late at night, when he left the house after dinner. I was certain he had a mistress and I wanted to know who she was.’

  She laughed oddly. ‘One night I managed to track him to a certain hotel in the 9th arrondissement. But I didn’t dare go in. I followed him there on several occasions. One daytime, I went there on my own and made enquiries. Don’t ask me the bravery and heartache it cost me. The whole thing was so demeaning. But I couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t. Anyhow, eventually I managed to find out that it was a particular kind of establishment. A brothel where boys and men met.’

  ‘The hotel D …’

  ‘Yes. I have to say that the innocent country bumpkin that I was drew back in shock. I started to loathe my husband. Loathe him with a fury. I couldn’t bear his punctilious little voice, his mannerisms, the way he straightened his tie, or sipped his wine, having sniffed it first, his nose like a rat’s. I couldn’t bear his politeness. I couldn’t bear the way he would choose what dress or jewellery I should wear then fasten it round my neck, his fingers cool, precise. His very presence scratched at me until I thought I would go mad.

  ‘It was around that time that I met Rachel. We grew close. And eventually, I told her. I told her because I needed to tell someone and she wasn’t of my circle. I told her because I thought if she was up to it, she might be able to help me. I had concocted this plan. I knew that Olivier was a vain man, enamoured of his status, and would dread nothing so much as public exposure. I needed someone who could witness his presence at one of the brothels he frequented, and then pretend blackmail, having of course simultaneously stated that I had been alerted to his betrayal.

  ‘Rachel thought it was a game, an acting game. We got her some men’s clothes and she wore them to perfection. She wasn’t afraid of those establishments. Her sister … but that’s another story. In any case, it didn’t take long until she found Olivier out, flirted with him a little. And then I wrote that letter for her to copy and send. One to me as well. When the letters arrived, I confronted Olivier. It was terrible. He wept.’

  She hid her face from him.

  ‘Now, now that I am wiser about the vagaries of desire, I am deeply ashamed of myself. But then … then I was brutal. Righteous.’

  She sat down opposite him, her eyes vast, her face drawn. Oddly, she looked younger, like a frightened girl, tortured by emotions that wouldn’t leave her alone.

  ‘By the end of that dreadful night, we had reached an accommodation. He would pay the messenger the sum mentioned in the letter, which was, in fact, small enough. And we would live apart. That would be best for both of us. He determined to travel for some months and then settle in the country. He was afraid, of course, that the blackmail would continue. I told him I would deal with that. He could trust me.’

  She poured them more tea, her hand not altogether steady. ‘It’s not an act or a period of my life I like to remember. I never thought I would have to. I had always assumed that Olympe had thrown out the letter.’

  She paused. Her features grew pensive. ‘It seems odd that she carried it with her over all those years. When you mentioned that Durand had it and had attributed it to Raf, I knew that sooner or later I might have to dredge all this up. I admit I hate having to confront ugliness, especially in myself. I somehow hoped that it wouldn’t happen.
It has.’

  She glanced at him and rushed on. ‘Oh, I know, James, know that blackmail is a foul crime. It ruptures and besmirches the ties that bind society. It’s also a betrayal. But at the time it felt like the only way out.’ She gave him a grim smile.

  ‘Quite what you decide to tell the Chief Inspector, I leave to you. But do emphasise that none of it bears any relationship to Olympe’s death. And I sincerely wish he won’t need to confront Olivier with it. Who knows, Olivier may even lie to save face. I can’t say that I would blame him. As for Rafael,’ she arranged a stray lock, ‘my greatest wish is that …’

  She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she looked up at him like a prisoner in the dock. The jury had already pronounced and she was awaiting sentence. James had become both judge and potential executioner. He delayed the moment.

  ‘How can you be so certain that all this bears no relationship to Olympe’s death? Maybe your husband decided to take his revenge. He could somehow have found out that the letter came from her.’

  Marguerite shook her head. ‘Never.’

  ‘You’re very absolute. Do you know more than I do?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying he couldn’t have found out, if he had really tried. If he had persisted. But Olivier is a changed man. He’s altogether happy with his new life. The country suits him. And he comes to Paris less and less frequently. I think I would have known if the insult, the threat, had rankled and festered through all these years. Will you tell Rafael?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. The truth is, Marguerite, I’ve barely taken it all in.’

  Her chuckle held a trace of self-contempt. ‘I don’t know why I care so much for his opinion. Can you explain that to me?’

  ‘I suspect you’re a far better philosopher of the boudoir than I’ll ever be.’

  ‘And you despise me for it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know yet.’ As he said it, he wondered at his own equanimity. What right had he to judge her, given the vagaries of his own desire?

  She got up again, her skirts swishing as she strode through silence. After a moment, she opened the French windows and beckoned him onto the small ironwork terrace. The garden lay beneath them in all its June glory. A bird sang melodiously.

  ‘It’s strange, James, but I feel lighter. Confession must be good for one. You know, I haven’t slept these last nights for worry about when and how it would come out.’ Her voice fell into a whisper. ‘I guess in a way, I’d been worrying for a long time.’

  ‘But not worrying so profoundly that you might want to do damage to Olympe?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She turned on him.

  ‘Yet she held on to the letter. So perhaps she was worrying that you might one day. Want to do her damage, I mean. The letter was her safeguard.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’d never considered that. But you must be right. The rich, after all, are never to be completely trusted. Olympe knew that.’ She gave him one of her astute looks. ‘Maybe you’re better acquainted with the murky depths of the soul than even I am, James. What will you do now?’

  He moved back into the room. A restlessness had overtaken him. He wanted to go, to walk, to think. But there was too much he still had to ask her. Now more than ever. He examined the painting which hung over the fireplace. He hadn’t really taken it in before. It showed a man leaning against a mantlepiece, a little as he was doing now. The face was intent, bony. The eyes stared straight out of the canvas with an arrogant expression. ‘Is that Olivier?’

  ‘No, James. I’m sorry to disappoint. It’s my father. I painted it before I left home. It’s not very good. But I have a certain fondness for it. He scowls reassuringly at the upheavals in my life.’

  ‘It doesn’t look to me as if he’s scowling.’

  ‘No?’ She came to stand beside him, examined the portrait. He could smell the fragrance of her hair, see the delicate whorls of her ear, the down on her cheek, the gentle rise and fall of her bosom. She turned and suddenly touched his lips with hers. He had the sensation of wings fluttering softly across his face. He would have liked to hold them there, but he hesitated and she was already away, leaving him with an indefinable sadness.

  ‘I think you should probably go and see the Chief Inspector now, James. He’ll be waiting.’

  He shook himself inwardly. ‘There are a few more things I need to ask you.’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Yes. You may be the best placed to answer them. About Olympe.’ He cleared his throat, reached for his pipe and filled it methodically. ‘I have discovered that contrary to appearances, Olympe was wearing clothes when she died.’ He struck a match. ‘Men’s clothes.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Marguerite looked wholly untroubled by his revelation. ‘Are you telling me that suicide now seems more likely?’

  ‘Perhaps that, too. I was really wondering about the clothes.’

  Margeurite giggled. The sound was so unexpected that he choked a little on his smoke and coughed. Her laughter grew louder. She stifled it behind her hand. ‘I’m sorry, James, but you should see your face. With all your wisdom, you’re so wonderfully shockable. It quite cheers me.’

  ‘So this doesn’t surprise you?’ James struggled for composure.

  ‘No. Should it? Olympe often donned men’s clothes after that first time. Particularly late at night, if she was alone. It made getting round the city far easier. No one bothers you if you’re a man. Neither other men, nor the police. She made quite the swell in her top hat.’

  ‘Did Raf know about this?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that for certain. We never talked about it. But he certainly knows …’ She stopped herself.

  ‘Knows what?’

  She laughed again. ‘Haven’t you guessed yet? I would have thought that Rafael might have mentioned it by now.’

  ‘Mentioned what?’

  She walked over to the desk, took something out of a drawer, and strolled back towards him, her posture subtly different, a thrust to her shoulders, a stiffness in her hips. There was a monocle in her eye. ‘Enchantez, Monsieur Norton.’ Her cheek twitched slightly.

  James blinked, his gaze racing to her feet as if he might see supple black boots there, striped trousers. ‘Marcel Bonnefoi? You?’

  She nodded, let the monocle fall. ‘I’m sorry, James. It was Olympe’s and my little joke.’ She giggled again and he had a sudden rushing sense of an unthought-of aspect of their relationship. Girls inventing pranks. Playing. Perhaps more than that.

  ‘I half guessed,’ he murmured. ‘There was something, some resemblance I couldn’t place. Does Raf know?’

  ‘About Marcel? I’m not altogether sure. Olympe may have told him. I haven’t. I did it just for her. To amuse her, really. To give her an untroubling admirer. It wasn’t exactly Marcel I thought he might have mentioned.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  He stared at her. ‘Antoine. Antoine, of course.’ A candle suddenly illuminated dusky regions in his mind. ‘All those times I saw him rushing to and from the house. In the carriage. And just before. When I was with Durand. That’s how you knew … Why you were so long.’

  She nodded. ‘You’ll forgive me that, at least.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he mumbled. ‘I feel duped.’

  ‘It wasn’t intended that way. It’s just for convenience. The adventure is secondary. There’s so little I can allow myself to do as Madame de Landois. You do see that? And I can help Rafael out. Disappear into a crowd. Move quickly without the weight of these skirts. You don’t realise how fortunate men’s fashions are.’

  ‘But Marcel Bonnefoi? Why serve him up to me?’

  She shrugged. ‘You wanted to meet him. He obliged. I couldn’t just blurt out the game to you. Not then. You can give off such a severe aura, James. I thought it might altogether scupper our friendship. Don’t you see?’

  He didn’t see. The air was thick with duplicity and something else, an unnaturalness. Through the miasma he sniffed at treacherous liaisons. ‘Did
you know about Olympe’s visits to the brothels?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you heard me. She went to see friends.’ He gave the word the emphasis of quotation marks.

  ‘I wasn’t her keeper, James.’

  ‘But you were, outside the cast of the play, the last person we know to have been with her? How was she? What did you talk about?’ His voice had turned inquisitorial.

  Marguerite leaned back into her chair. ‘Don’t think I haven’t gone over and over it in my mind. She was fine, happy really, full of plans. Not in the least a woman on the verge of suicide, if that’s what you mean. She even mentioned the word marriage. She said she thought she might go with Raf to America, after the play had finished its run. To see what life there might be like. To see if it was really the wondrous land of dream. To see whether it might be the answer to her family’s plight. She was excited.’

  ‘Did you say anything to blunt her hopes?’

  She looked down at her hands. The gold wedding band glistened on her fourth finger. ‘I’ve never been to America, James. There was little I could say.’

  ‘I meant about marriage to Raf.’

  ‘No. No. I said nothing. Well, perhaps only to intimate that in my case marriage had not been altogether a success. But she knew that. And she didn’t mention anything about a pregnancy. Don’t look at me like that, James.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if to suggest that in some jealous rage, I might have wished her ill. Yes, yes, of course I confess to a passing pang. That would hardly be unnatural. But you have to understand that Olympe was like a daughter to me. Certainly she thought of me as something of a mother. A partial replacement, in any case. And she never knew that there had been anything between Rafael and myself – except friendship. Which is in truth what there is.’

  ‘She never knew?’ James felt as if he had sunk into the depths of perfidy.

  ‘Well, no. Rafael never told her. In consideration of me, as much as anything else I imagine. Sometimes I wish I had never told you. There was no real need.’