Father Cédric arrives a few minutes later, and kisses her hand.
“So, Father, how was it?”
“It was a funeral, Countess.”
“Did her children play some music for her?”
“No.”
“Oh, what idiots, Odette adored Julio Iglesias.”
“How do you know?”
“A woman knows everything about her rival. Her habits, her perfume, her tastes. When a lover turns up at his mistress’s, he should feel like he’s on holiday, not back home.”
“None of that sounds very Catholic, Countess.”
“Father, people need to sin, or your confessional would be empty. Sin is your stock-in-trade. If people had nothing more to be ashamed of, there would be no one in the pews of your church.”
The countess looked around for Nono.
“Norbert, would you be so kind as to accompany me back, please?”
“Nono becomes flustered and blushes even more.
“Of course, Countess.”
Nono and the countess had barely passed through my door before Gaston broke his cup. As I bend over to sweep up the shards of china with my dustpan and brush, Gaston whispers in my ear, “I’m wondering if Nono’s going to get it on with the countess.”
79.
In the time linking heaven and earth,
the finest of mysteries is hidden.
IRÈNE FAYOLLE’S JOURNAL
May 29th, 1993
Paul is ill. According to our family doctor, he’s showing symptoms of a complication of the liver, stomach, or pancreas. Paul suffers and doesn’t get treatment. Strangely, instead of getting tests done, seeking medical opinions from specialists, in one week he’s consulted three clairvoyants, who predicted that he would have a long and happy life. Paul has never shown the slightest interest in mediums or anything like that. He reminds me of those atheists who start talking to God when their boat is sinking, and I have the feeling that he became ill because of me. That my lies to go and join Gabriel in a hotel room finally got to him.
Lyons, Avignon, Châteauroux, Amiens, Epinal. For a year now, Gabriel and I have been bed-hopping like others go island-hopping.
I made two appointments for Paul to have a scan at the Paoli-Calmettes Institute; he didn’t go to them. Every evening, when I tell him that he urgently needs to seek treatment, he smiles at me and replies, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
I can see that he’s suffering, that he’s lost weight. At night, in his sleep, the pain makes him moan.
I’m in despair. What is he after? Has he gone mad or become suicidal?
I can’t force him into my car so I can take him to the hospital. I’ve tried everything—smiles, tears, anger—nothing seems to affect him. He’s letting himself die, he’s drifting away.
I begged him to speak to me, to explain why he was doing this. Why this giving up. He went off to bed.
I’m lost.
June 7th, 1993
This morning, Gabriel called me at the rose nursery. He sounded happy, he’s in court in Aix all week, he wants to see me, spend all his nights with me. He tells me that he thinks only of me.
I told him that it was impossible. That I couldn’t leave Paul on his own.
Gabriel hung up on me.
I took up the snow globe placed on the counter, and I smashed it with all my might against a wall, screaming.
Not even real snow, just polystyrene. Not even real love, just nights in hotels.
We’ve gone mad.
September 3rd, 1993
I poisoned Paul’s herbal tea. I put strong sedatives in it so he’d be knocked out and I could call for an ambulance.
They found Paul flat out in the middle of the sitting room and took him to the ER, where he was examined.
Paul has cancer.
He is so weak due to the illness and the drugs I made him swallow that the doctors have decided to hospitalize him for an unspecified amount of time.
Paul’s toxicology tests showed that he had absorbed a massive dose of sedatives. He made out to the doctors that he had taken them, that he just wanted the pain to go away. He said that so that I wouldn’t be questioned about it.
I explained to Paul why I had done it; I didn’t have any choice, it was the only way I had found to make him finally go to the hospital. He told me that he was deeply moved that I loved him that much. He thought I didn’t love him anymore.
Sometime, I would like to disappear with Gabriel. But only sometimes.
December 6th, 1993
I phoned Gabriel to tell him about the operation, the chemotherapy. To tell him we wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore for now.
He replied, “I understand,” and then hung up.
April 20th, 1994
This morning, a pretty pregnant woman came into the rose nursery. She wanted to buy some old roses and peonies to plant on the day her baby arrived. We talked about this and that. Particularly about her garden and her house, with its southwest aspect, ideal for planting roses and peonies. She told me she was expecting a girl, which was wonderful, and I replied that I had had a son and that was just as wonderful. That made her laugh.
It’s so rare that I make others laugh. Apart from Gabriel. And my son, when he was small.
When it came to paying, the client wrote a check and gave me an identity card, saying:
“Forgive me, it’s my husband’s. But the surname and address are the same.”
On the check I saw that she was called Karine Prudent, and lived at 19 Chemin des Contamines, Mâcon. Then I saw that the ID was Gabriel’s. His photo, his date of birth, his place of birth, the same address, 19 Chemin des Contamines, Mâcon, his fingerprint. It took me a few seconds to understand. To make the connection. I felt myself going red, my cheeks burning. Gabriel’s wife looked at me steadily, without lowering her eyes, and then took the ID back from me to slip it into the inside pocket of her jacket, against her
