by Tony Duvert
Marc and Philippe met only rarely, Philippe depended principally upon his father, a stranger of whom there was not even a photo here. It was this mysterious father who insisted that the boy do his studies at a private college; it was he who took care of his upkeep, moreover with an extreme generosity. Victim or not, Philippe appeared to be extravagantly pampered. When he appeared this time, a few days ago, the splendours of his luggage and his apparel stupefied the Brisset family: the young scamp of fifteen was turning into a dandy. For him the Jesuit education succeeded in an unexpected fashion; he spoke only of tennis.
Philippe had gone up to his room and banged the door. Marc went to the wall that separated the two rooms, and keened his ear.
This espionnage offered an unexpected interest to the little boy, making him forget his disappointment and his plans for other games.
“Peter, you put us in an impossible situation!” maintained Oriane Brisset. “I implore you to think again!”
“I’ve thought enough,” answered Peter. “It’s finished, I’m leaving. The professor has died, and I’m off. Madam, I don’t want a reference, I’m not getting another job. It’s finished, understand?”
“But you’ll be here for a few days, or a few weeks, won’t you, Peter! We need to reorganize… help me at least to find your successor!”
“I don’t know any one like me, madam,” answered the Englishman.
He is calm, but he appears resolved not to give in.
“There exists no one such as you, I don’t need to tell you! No one in the world could replace you. But I shall need to have some one, nevertheless! I beseech you. If you leave now, it will be a catastrophe.”
Pater was silent for a few seconds, stiff, his mouth severe.
“I’ll give you just one month,” he finally decreed.
This afternoon had been exhausting for Oriane Brisset. Every one wanted to leave Neuilly. Not only had Peter resigned, but Dr. Brunet had expressed his intention of going to live elsewhere, with Beatrice and Marc: a flat in central Paris, perhaps.
Madame Brisset had long fought against this plan, which she considered indefensible. The private hotel was immense, and the family of her son-in-law could occupy two entire floors without any expenditure: what madness to want to live elsewhere! And the little boy absolutely needed a garden.
In reality Oriane understood that Dr. Brunet actually wanted to set himself up here as absolute master. He had come out with this extortion of moving house so that she would implore him to stay unconditionally. She didn’t like Beatrice much, and she didn’t like her son-in-law: but she had a horror of solitude, and she needed the boy. Let them take the whole house! Two rooms on the ground floor had always been enough for her.
Once Peter had left, Dr. Brunet himself would certainly choose the new staff for the house: he calculated that he would need two or three, whom he undertook to remunerate. Oriane replied that she wanted to have her own maid, selected by herself, and devoted only to herself. Dr. Brunet did not argue with this arrangement.
XIV
Dr. Henri Brunet was not a happy biologist. Nature had been unfortunate for him. A short build, weasel-face, yellowish teeth, dull and myopic blue eyes, a dry and snuffling voice, shortness of breath, narrow shoulders, a flabby and angular stomach, bony arms, a tiny penis, badly constructed legs, a sour digestion and fragile sleep, Monsieur Brunet suffered cruelly just from being himself.
A good degree, good research, a good speciality, a good marriage, a beautiful wife, a very beautiful son, and a magnificent family by marriage had hardly reconciled him to so much suffering.
Nevertheless he was not a bad fellow. But his appearance inspired everywhere such an anipathy that, since his childhood, he had become internally more and more like the external Brunet whom other people detested: his force of character helped; he became sincerely detestable.
“That gift was idiotic,” he told Beatrice. “What was your mother thinking of!”
“How do you think I could stop her? Marc was longing to have it. You know what kind of scene happens when one doesn’t say yes to that little gentleman.”
“No, I think you’re simplifying Marc. He’s not a spoilt child. I understand, it is true, that when he is treated with complaisance, he will be happy. But you and your mother confuse that with goodness knows what ineptitudes; as I see it you are cretinizing him!”
Dr. Brunet had come to know of the jewel his youngster was wearing in his ear, and on the spur of the moment he had only remarked that the ring should have been on the left. Later, talking with Beatrice, he had asked for an explanation. Beatrice did not dare speak the truth: she had agreed beforehand with Oriane to tell Brunet that the gift came from the grandmother. She had been frightened that the biologist might have too violent a reaction if he learned the truth about the affair. Beatrice would solve the mystery alone – and, whatever happened, without her husband’s knowledge.
“I assure you that I don’t see how a ring in the ear is stupid,” she said. “Anyway you don’t think that it risks effeminzing him, do you?”
“Not at all!” replied Henri Brunet. “Besides, I’m completely indifferent to whether he’s a girl or a boy! But I don’t want him to become an idiot. And that ring, it’s a… a sign, a symptom, of a whole situation, a whole education, a climate that you…”
He sighed, He gave up trying to explain himself further. Henceforward he was going to live close to them more often, things were going to change.
The reality was that Henri Brunet was terribly jealous. The admirable little boy was all the work of himself. Of himself, who had thwarted the menaces of an odious heredity to beget this boy. Of himself, who had been wise enough to marry a woman who was very healthy, well formed, and with an excellent pedigree. Of himself, who had redoubled all judicious advice on nourishment and education, and fought against inept prejudices and instincts, feminine tradition, meaningless actions, and received truths. And when Marc had completed his first three years, Dr. Brunet was sure that he had succeeded: the child was superb, one could examine him from his toe-nails to the end of his hair without finding the least anatomic point shared with his father. Nor did he resemble his mother: so from whom had he pinched that face?…
This success was not the only miracle. Another extraordinary event had taken place: the little boy very much loved his father. Since his cradle days, Marc had smiled at that ugly weasel-face that bent towards him. A babyish infatuation? Dr. Brunet had thought so. But Marc, as he grew older, confirmed this affection: his scarecrow father pleased him. No one had ever reacted like that to Henri Brunet’s ugliness, and Brunet, staggered, allowed himself to be completely overcome by the young gentleman with such unusual passions. And so Marc had became this untouchable sacred cow.
“As I see it,” Beatrice went on, “I think you were too severe with Philippe.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” admitted Brunet. I don’t know how to talk to him. I…”
“But who was forcing you to intervene?” said Beatrice, astonished.
“Oh, that tennis business? I don’t remember. It shocked me. Even Marc stayed politely in his room, and remember that at his age, however, one could be excused for…”
“Philippe is never in Paris, you have to understand. And as for what is shocking about that, listen. My father never had that kind of conformism, and it’s ridiculous to have it in his name.”
“Leave it, let’s leave it,” said Henri Brunet. When is Philippe going back?”
“He’s not going back.”
“Eh?”
“School holidays start in a few days. I thought it would be useless if he took the trip for such a short time.”
“You mean that he intends to spend these precious holidays with us?”
“I hope not!” said Beatrice. “For him, I mean. But as yet he doesn’t have any definite plans. His father will probably insist on seeing him, and Philippe will decide after that, I imagine. Oh, in any case, it’s not a very long vacation.”
“I’ve watched you together,” said Beatrice, “you’re like cat and dog. An incompatibility… A limiting case.”
Henri Brunet uttered a short sceptical cough:
“Hm, but does he get on better with his father? or with you?”
Beatrice gave a little frown, reflected, and hesitated. She seemed more woe-begone than pre-occupied.
“I’m incapable of giving you an answer, Henri.”
“According to the little that we know… And remember his hostility even towards Marc. That hate! When I see Philippe at dinner, I always have the impression that he’s thinking of how to pour poison into all our glasses.”
“You’re joking. Phillipe is in an extremely difficult situation. I’m partially responsible, perhaps. But the principal culprit is his father.”
“Culprit? There’s an exaggeration, Beatrice.”
“A badly chosen word, let’s say. But it’s not too strong. I… you will remember, I’ve never hidden this from you. I thought it indispensible that you should know it. This divorce, it was he, Bertrand, who wanted it. Not I.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Dr. Brunet.
Beatrice had in the past confided this to him, but he had not asked for excessively detailed explanations. Even the question had something humiliating in it. Brunet would never have been able to marry a Beatrice had this marriage not been for her an act of despair, a kind of suicide. Certainly their joining had slowly acquired a degree of legitimacy, and a child had been born: but beatrice continued to love Bertrand, her first husband, and she did little to hide it.
“Is it known, in that connection,” said Brunet, “what Philippe wants to do in life, were he not trapped in this situation?,,,”
The question was ironic, even evil.
“He doesn’t confide in any one,” replied Beatrice. “He hardly speaks to me at all, and he doesn’t write to me. I’m afraid that he doesn’t get on well with his father – but not because of him, Philippe: because of Bertrand, who has a strange attitude. Lots of money, lots of arbitrary demands, and lots of scorn. Is that what is needed in a father?”
“Indeed it is!” responded Dr. Brunet. “I completely understand that. Definitely your first husband seems to be a very original catholic. Is he always so… convinced?”
“I suppose so. But why, Henry, do you talk about him as though I were still seeing him to-day?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Please, Henri. And while we are on the subject, you would oblige me by being clear, So listen. If Bertrand wanted to see me again, I would accept at once.”
“I have never doubted it,” said Dr. Brunet. “And does he really not want that?”
“A few years ago, when Philippe was a child, we met two or three times a year because of him: and Bertrand was glacial. After Philippe became big enough to go and see his father alone, I’ve not had a single sign. Not one.”
“Do you miss him?”
Beatrice gave her husband an angry look.
“No, Henri, I don’t miss him. The word would be too weak. Infinitely too weak.”
She got up, as though to put a stop to further conversation, and abruptly left the room. Dr. Brunet, who was left profoundly cold by conjugal problems despite his irritation at being only a stand-in husband, soon forgot this scene. Moreover he was convinced that, contrary to her assertions, Beatrice had not broken with her first husband.
XV
“Come on Mr. Sorel, don’t pull that face!”
Madame Rênal was greatly amused.
“After all,” she added, “I’m the one that should be dissatisfied! Your investigation, Sorel, your investigation is going well!”
Inspector Sorel shrugged his shoulders. He sank back into his black plastic arm-chair. He gazed at the polished floor with a sulky expression, vexed, annoyed, like a boy who is unjustly punished but who has certain – other – matters he is guilty of.”
“But who made my investigation start going well, madam?” he complained.
“Fine, fine, fine. I want people to start being happy around me, I’m not a dragon!” Superintendent Rênal assured him. Explain yourself, Sorel. Show me where it is, this big sore spot!”
“Sauveterre!” Sorel dropped the name laconically.
Madame Rênal pretended to be astonished.
“So what did she do to you, this gallant old lady, my boy?”
“What did she do to me?” countered Sorel. “Think of the fact that she exists!“
“But of course she exists! I didn’t give you her address to make a fool of you: clearly, Sorel, you take me for a kind of Machiavel.”
“Oh, yes, I do!” said the inspector, grumbling.
“But good Lord, what is inconvenient about the fact that Madam Sauveterre exists? You are disconcerting me.”
Julien Sorel gave his big boss a black look. She was exaggerating. Such a big dirty trick.
“Why,” he asked, “did the Sauveterre file disappear from Professor Brisset’s filing cabinet? Why did you remove it? You assured me that those files were the ones of important patients. Entered by Brisset under a false identity in his appointment book, and under the dual identity – the false name and the true one – in the files.”
“Yes, you summarize the problem quite well,” said Madam Rênal.
“So, logically, Madam Sauveterre shouldn’t exist. Or rather, if she does exist, you have no reason to hide her file from me! The old lady I saw is very very proper, but she’s not a V.I.P.!”
“Ah, Sorel! So it’s her file you want? Is that the only thing that’s worrying you, my boy?”
“Yes, madam.”
The superindendent pretended to rummage through the folders that filled her desk, then she suddenly broke off:
“Alas no, inspector, I can’t.”
“Have you lost it?”
“Don’t be ironic, please.”
“So then, what is so exceptional about this old lady, that her file is hidden from me?”
“Withdraw that word, inspector! Nothing is being hidden from you!” cried Superintendent Rênal.
“What? Everything is being hidden from me! Absolutely everything! It’s not an investigation, it’s blind-man’s-buff. I’m too old for that!”
“Inspector Sorel, listen to me carefully,” said Madam Rênal severely. “The police are not what you believe them to be. Particularly in this affair, we protect no one. No one! Certain information is confidential, and I am not at liberty to disclose it to you. You are misinterpreting this… need of reserve. Sorel, make do with what we are permitted to tell you. That too is part of your job. Such as it is. You can take it or leave it, Mr. Sorel. I’ll be very sorry to receive your resignation, but if our rules are so unbearable for you…”
“I have never threatened to resign, madam,” said Julien Sorel, almost frightened.
“Nor do you have any particularly threatening quality, my boy,” commented Madame Rênal. “Get firmly into your skull – such as it is, there’s no lack of space, yes? – two or three home truths.”
“Yes?”
“And for one thing, what interests me about you is your suppleness. Not your brain. Everyone has his own talents, and no one will pay you for those you don’t have.”
“Am I really such an idiot?” asked Sorel.
“No, let’s see!… And as a second point, know that the information you lack won’t be any use to you. Believe me: the culprit is not from that lot.”
“You know who he is, then?”
“Clearly I don’t, Sorel. I am not playing with you. I really don’t know who killed Professor Brisset. On the other hand, I am certain that certain people did not kill him.”
“Absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“So may I conclude that I would be wasting my time by looking for this Dieudefoi all over Paris? And, more generally, by taking an interest in the professor’s patients?”<
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“No, I would not go so far as to say that.”
“Excuse me if I insist. You know the real names of the last two patients Brisset saw.”
“I know them.”
“And neither the one nor the other killed Brisset?”
“In principle, no.”
“How do you mean ‘in principle’, madam?”
“Look Sorel, you move me to pity, Your pleas will be answered. Here’s the address of Mr. Dieudefoi, the patient present from 6:30 to 7.”
Startled by this sudden concession, Inspector Sorel grasped the slip of paper and left the office almost without a word of thanks. Only outside, in the street, did he read the address that superintendent Rênal had just given him: it was that of Madame Sauveterre.
“Mr. Dieudefoi, if you please?” asked Sorel.
The old lady smiled maliciously at the inspector:
“Yes indeed, inspector, it is I! It is certainly I! So do come in, inspector!”
He was going to pass through the vestibule, when Madame Sauveterre grasped him by the sleeve:
“No no! Wait! Let’s go to the kitchen. I’m preparing something good. You’ll enjoy it! Quick, come on!”
She opened a door. The heat and the aroma of cake-making leaped to Julian Sorel’s head.
“Watch out, there’s flour on that chair. Sit over here!”
Madame Sauveterre showed Julien Sorel to a big rocking-chair with two big faded cushions. She was very busy at the oven:
“To-day I’ve had a crisis of gluttony. Here, move this stool over to your chair, it can serve as a pedestal table! Would you care for a cup of chocolate?”
Sorel accepted. Since they had reached the kitchen, he, captivated, had been sniffing the aroma of a powerful English cocoa made with fresh cream.
“It’s already Pentecost, and it’s freezing,” said Carole Sauveterre. This bit of chocolate will do you good. I myself, when I have worked well, and done good pastrywork, I reward myself in that way! Am I not right, inspector?”
“Right indeed, madam.”