“You could come and live with me,” she whispered, exhausted now, her voice a mere croak. “I would look after you, I would be there to protect you, you know I would do that for you, Madame Rose. You would never be alone. You would never be alone again.”
Gilbert’s deep voice boomed out, startling us both.
“That will be enough, mademoiselle,” he announced. She turned to glare at him. He looked down at her, amused, stroking his black beard. “Madame Rose is looked after by me. She is not alone.”
Alexandrine tossed her head contemptuously. I was glad to see that some spirit had returned.
“You?” she scoffed.
“Yes, I,” he retorted, rather grandly, stretching himself up to his full height.
“But surely, monsieur, you agree that Madame Rose’s plan to stay in the house till the end is pure madness.”
He shrugged, as he always did.
“That is Madame Rose’s decision. And hers alone.”
“If that is what you think, monsieur, then I believe we do not share the same feelings for Madame Rose.”
He seized her arm, looming menacingly above her.
“What do you know about feelings?” he spat. “Mademoiselle who’s always slept in a clean bed, who’s never gone hungry, proper Mademoiselle with her fine nose stuck in flower petals. What do you know about love and pain and sorrow? What do you know about life and death? Tell me!”
“Oh, let me go,” she moaned, shaking him off. She stepped to the other side of the bare kitchen and turned her back to us.
There was a long silence. I watched them both, these two odd creatures who had taken up such an important space in my life in these last years. I knew nothing of their past, of their secrets, and yet it seemed to me that they were strangely alike in their loneliness, their stance, their garb. Tall, thin, wrapped in black, pale faces, tangled dark hair. The same glare in their bright eyes. The same hidden wounds. Where did Gilbert get that limp? Where was he born, who was his family, what was his story? Why was Alexandrine always alone? Why did she never talk about herself? I would no doubt never know.
I held out a hand to each of them. Their palms were cold and dry in mine.
“Please do not fight over me,” I said very calmly. “You both mean so much to me in these last moments.”
They nodded wordlessly, their eyes not meeting mine.
The day had risen now, pale white and brilliant, icy cold. To my surprise, Gilbert handed me the greatcoat and fur hat I had worn the night he took me out to see the neighborhood.
“Put this on, Madame Rose. And you, mademoiselle, fetch your coat. Wrap up warm.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, startled.
“Not far. Only for an hour or so. We must go quick. Trust me. You will like it. You too, mademoiselle.”
Alexandrine meekly did as she was told. I believe she was too tired and too upset to put up another fight.
Outside, the sun shone like a strange jewel, hanging low in the sky, almost white. The cold was so intense that I could feel it cutting through my lungs every time I drew breath. I could not bear seeing the partially destroyed rue Childebert once more, so I kept my eyes down. He hurried us up the rue Bonaparte, limping badly. The street was deserted. I did not see a living soul, not even a hackney. The pale light, the freezing air, seemed to have stifled all life. Where was he taking us? We rushed onwards, my arm tucked under Alexandrine’s. She was shivering from head to toe.
We reached the riverside, and there was the most astounding sight. Remember that bitterly cold winter just before Violette was born, when we had come to this place between the Pont des Arts and the Pont Neuf, to watch enormous blocks of ice roll by? This time, the cold was so severe that the entire river had iced over. Gilbert led us down to the docks, where a couple of barges trapped by the ice did not budge. I hesitated, I pulled back, but Gilbert said to trust him. So I did.
The river was covered with a thick, uneven gray crust. As far as I could see, looking up toward the Ile de la Cité, people were walking on the Seine. A dog pranced madly up and down, jumping and barking and sometimes slipping. Gilbert urged me to be very careful. Alexandrine ran on ahead, ecstatic, like a child, whooping. We reached the middle of the river. I could glimpse brown water churning beneath the ice. Loud cracks could be heard from time to time. They startled me. Again Gilbert told me not to be afraid. It was so cold there was at least one meter of ice, he said.
How I longed for you at that moment, Armand. How you would have been thunderstruck by this astonishing sight. It was like being in another world. I watched Alexandrine cavort with the little black dog. The sun rose slowly, as pale as ever, and more and more people came down to the river. The minutes seemed to stand still, like the frozen layer beneath my feet. The clamor of voices and laughter. The crisp, icy breeze. The shriek of gulls in the air.
I knew, as I stood there, with Gilbert’s comforting arm around me, that my time had come. I knew the end loomed up ahead and that the choice was mine. I could still back away, I could still leave the house. But I was not afraid. Gilbert glanced down at me as I stood silently by his side and I could tell he knew exactly what I was thinking.
And I recalled the last meal that Monsieur Helder had given in his restaurant on the rue Erfurth. All the neighbors had attended. Yes, we were all there, Monsieur and Madame Barou, Alexandrine, Monsieur Zamaretti, Docteur Nonant, Monsieur Jubert, Madame Godfin, Mademoiselle Vazembert, Madame Paccard, Monsieur Horace, Monsieur Bougrelle, Monsieur Monthier. We sat at those long narrow tables you liked so much, beneath the brass hat racks and next to the walls yellowed with smoke. The lace-curtained windows gave on to the rue Childebert and part of the rue Erfurth. We had lunched and dined there so many times. You had a soft spot for the salé aux lentilles, I enjoyed the bavette. I sat there, between Madame Barou and Alexandrine, and I simply could not take in that in a couple of weeks or months all this would be gone, wiped away, eradicated. We had a solemn meal. No one talked much. Even Monsieur Horace’s jokes fell flat. As we ate our desserts, Monsieur Helder spotted Gilbert hobbling down the street. He knew we were friends. He opened the door and gruffly invited Gilbert in. Nobody seemed to mind the presence of a tattered ragpicker amidst us. Gilbert sat down, nodding his head respectfully to everyone, and managed to eat his meringue with a certain amount of grace, I thought. His eyes met mine and they twinkled merrily. Oh, he must have been a good-looking lad, once. At the end of the lunch, while we were having coffee, Monsieur Helder gave an awkward speech. He wished to thank each and every one of us for being his customers. He was off now to Corrèze, where his wife and he would open up a new restaurant near Brive-la-Gaillarde, where his wife’s family lived. They did not want to stay in a city that was being so heavily modernized and that was, they felt, they feared, losing its soul. Paris had become another Paris, he deplored, and as long as he still had energy within him, then he would take that energy elsewhere and start over.
It was that day, after that last, tearful meal at Chez Paulette, that I found myself walking down the street with Gilbert by my side. His was a comforting presence. The entire street had started to pack up and move away. Carts and hackneys were parked in front of each house. The movers were coming to fetch my furniture early next week. Gilbert asked me where I was going to go. Until then, my response to that question had invariably been: I am going to my daughter Violette’s place, near Tours. But somehow I knew that with this odd stranger I could be myself. No need to lie.
And so you see, dearest, I said to him that day: “I am not leaving. I shall never leave my house.” He seemed to understand what this entailed perfectly. He nodded. He did not even question me. The only thing he added, a few minutes later, was this:
“I am here to help you, Madame Rose. I will help you in any way.”
I looked up at him and searched his face.
“And why would you do that, pray?”
He paused, long, grimy fingers stroking the length of his tangled beard.
/> “You are a rare, precious person, Madame Rose. You have always helped me out these past years. Life has not been kind. I lost my loved ones. I have lost all my belongings, my home, and even most of my hope. But when I am with you, I feel there is still some hope left. A glimmer of hope. Even in this modern, tiring world that I don’t understand.”
That was undoubtedly the longest speech he had ever uttered in my presence. I was moved, as you can imagine, and I struggled to find appropriate words. They did not come. So I merely patted his sleeve. He nodded his head, he smiled. There was a mixture of sadness and joy in his eyes. I wanted to question him about his loved ones, about his losses. But between him and I flowed an undercurrent of understanding and respect. We did not need to ask each other questions. We did not need answers.
I knew then that I had found the one person who would never judge me. The one person who would never stop me.
THE WORK WILL TAKE up again soon, Gilbert announced, as he accompanied me back to the house. We walked slowly, as the streets were still crisp with ice. Alexandrine had left when we were still on the river. She had not said good-bye. She had not looked at me once. I watched her walk away, heading north, her back very stiff and straight. I could tell how angry she still was with me just by the way her arms swung in a tight, menacing way. Would she be back? Would she try to stop me? What would I do if she did?
We spotted a group of workers by the end of the rue Erfurth, or rather, what was left of it, and Gilbert had to use both cunning and caution to get us back to the house. He has gone out now to get food, and I am sitting in my hiding place, still wearing the heavy, warm coat.
I do not have much time now. I will begin to tell you what you need to know. This is not easy. So I will keep my words simple. As simple as I can. Forgive me.
I NEVER KNEW WHAT his full name was. He was merely called Monsieur Vincent and I am not certain whether that was his first name or his last. You no doubt do not recall him. To you he was insignificant. When this happened, I was thirty years old. Maman Odette had been gone for three years. Violette was nearly eight.
The first time I saw him was by the water fountain, one morning as I was walking with our daughter. I noticed him simply because he was staring at me. He was sitting by the fountain with a group of men I did not know, a thickset, freckled fellow, with short fair hair and a square jaw. He was younger than me. He liked to give the ladies the eye, I understood that fairly soon. There was something vulgar about him, his clothes, maybe, or his demeanor.
I did not like him from the start. There was an untrustworthy expression in his eyes, a false smile that seemed to stretch his face. “Oh, he’s a ladies’ man,” murmured Madame Chanteloup over your starched chemises. “Who?” I asked, just to be sure. “That young fellow, that Monsieur Vincent. The new one working with Monsieur Jubert.” Every time I set foot from the house, to go to the market, to take my daughter to her piano lessons, to visit Maman Odette’s grave, there he was, lurking on the threshold of the printing house, as if he had been waiting. I was sure he was looking out for me. He did this in a predatory fashion that unnerved me. I never felt at ease in his company. His glittering eyes had a way of boring into mine.
What did he want, this young man? Why was he waiting for me, every morning, just to say a couple of words? What did he expect? At first he upset me to such an extent that I shied away from him. When I saw his silhouette etched out in front of the building, I ran, head down, as if I had urgent business to attend to. I even remember telling you how much this young man annoyed me, trying to spark off a conversation. You laughed. You thought it was flattering, this youngster, harping after your wife. That means my Rose is still fresh, my Rose is still lovely, you said, fondly kissing the top of my head. I did not find that amusing. Could you not have been a little more jealous? I would have enjoyed a spurt of envy. Monsieur Vincent changed his attitude when he understood I was not going to talk back to him. He became extremely polite, almost deferent. He rushed to help me with my shopping, my parcels, or if I happened to alight from a hackney. He became positively agreeable.
Little by little, my distrust faded. His charm operated, slowly but surely. I became accustomed to his warmth, his greetings. And I began to look out for them. Oh, dearest, how vain we women are. How foolish. There I was, ridiculously basking in this young man’s constant attention. If one day I had not caught a glance of him, I wondered where he was. And when I did behold him, a blush invaded my face. Yes, he had a way with women. And I should have known better.
The day this happened, you were away. Somehow he knew that. You had left to visit a property with your notary, out of the city. You would not be back till the following day. Germaine and Mariette were not yet at our service. A girl came in and when she left at the end of the day I was alone with Violette.
He knocked that evening just as I had finished my solitary dinner. I looked down to the rue Childebert, my napkin to my lips, and I saw him standing there, his hat in his hands. I recoiled from the window. What on earth did he want? I did not go down to open up, however charming he had been of late. He finally went away and I believed I was safe. However, an hour or so later, when night had fallen, another knock was heard. I was about to go to bed. I was wearing my blue nightdress and my dressing gown. Our daughter was sleeping upstairs. The house was silent, dark. I went down. I did not open the door, I asked who was there.
“’Tis me, Monsieur Vincent. I only want to talk to you, Madame Rose, just for a minute. Please open the door.”
His voice sounded gentle and kind. The same kind voice he had been using with me for the past weeks. It fooled me. I opened up.
He swept in, too fast. There was a strong whiff of liquor on his breath. He looked down at me like an animal stares at its prey. Those glittering eyes. An icy fear seeped into my bones. And then I knew letting him in had been a terrible mistake. There was no small talk. He lunged out for me with those freckled hands, an ugly, greedy gesture, his fingers biting cruelly into my arms, his breath hot on my face. I managed to drag myself away with a sob, I managed to run up the stairs, a silent scream tearing my throat. But he was too quick. He caught me by the back of my neck as I entered the living room, and we tumbled down to the carpet, his loathsome hands at my breast, his wet mouth slippery on mine.
I tried to reason with him, I tried to tell him this was horribly wrong, that my daughter was in the upstairs room, that you were coming back, that he could not do this. He could not do this.
He was heedless. He did not listen. He did not care. He overpowered me. He crushed me to the ground. I feared my bones would break under his weight. I want you to understand there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I put up a fight. I fought him as hard as I could. I pulled his greasy hair, I writhed, I kicked, I bit, I spat. I could not bring myself to scream, because my daughter was just upstairs, and I could not bear her coming down to witness this. I wished above all to protect her.
When I realized that fighting was no good, I remained stonelike, a statue. I cried. I cried all the way through, dearest. I cried in silence. He had his way. I willed myself away from this hideous moment. I remember looking up at the ceiling and its slight cracks and waiting for this ordeal to end. I could smell the musty scent of the carpet, and his awful odor, the stink of a stranger, a stranger in my house, a stranger within my body. It happened very quickly, barely a couple of minutes, but to me it was a century. There was a ghastly leer on his face, his mouth was fully stretched out, turned up at the sides. Never will I forget that monstrous grin, the glistening of his teeth, the loll of his tongue.
He left without a word, sneering down at me, and I lay there like a corpse. I lay there for what seemed hours. Then I crept up and went to our room. I fetched water and I washed myself. The water was icy and I flinched. My skin was bruised and purple. I ached all over. I wanted to cower into a corner and shriek. I thought I would go mad. I felt filthy, contaminated.
The house was not safe. The house had been invaded. The house ha
d been ravaged. I could almost feel the walls trembling. It had taken him five minutes. But the deed was done. The damage was done.
I did not sleep that night. His glittering eyes. His rapacious hands. That was when I had the nightmare for the first time. I went up to my daughter. She slept on, warm and drowsy. I lay there listening to her quiet breathing. I swore to myself I would never tell a living soul about this. Not even Père Levasque at confession. I could not even mention it in my most intimate prayers.
Who was there to tell, anyway? I was not close to my mother. I had no sister. My daughter was far too young. And I could not bring myself to speak of this to you. What would you have done? How would you have reacted? In my head I went back to the scene, again and again. Had I not egged him on? Had I not been inadvertently flirtatious? Was this not my fault? How could I have opened the door wearing my nightgown? I had not behaved decently. How could I have been duped by his voice through the door?
But wouldn’t this appalling event have shamed you profoundly, had I ever told you? Would you not think I’d been having an affair, that I was his mistress? I could not bear the shame. I could not bear imagining the expression on your face. I could not bear the gossip, the chatter, walking down the rue Childebert, the rue Erfurth, with eyes on me, the knowing smiles, the nudges, the whispers.
No one would know. No one would ever know.
The next morning he was there, smoking, in front of the printing house. I feared I would not have the strength to walk out of the building. For a moment I lingered there, pretending to look for my keys in my purse. Then I managed to take a few steps onto the cobblestones. I looked up. He was facing me. There was a long scratch down his cheek. He stared right at me, blatantly, a swagger in his stance. He flickered a lazy tongue over his lower lip. I glanced away, my face crimson.
How I hated him at that instant. How I longed to pry his eyes out. How many men like him, on our streets, men of his kind who force themselves on women? How many women endure in silence because they feel guilty, because they are afraid? Men like him make silence their law. He knew I would never denounce him. He knew I would never tell you. He was right.