Philippe hadn’t been able to get near Room 1. The entire area had been cordoned off—an expression out of an American TV series, but there in Burgundy, and in real life. Lines of red plastic tape to contain the horror. Experts were examining the ground and the walls, taking photographs. Studying the fire’s trajectory, rewriting history while looking for what was explicit: evidence, clues, prints. A precise report was required for the public prosecutor, the death of four children couldn’t be taken lightly. There would be punishment and sentencing.
He’d heard plenty of “I’m so sorry, we’re so sorry, all our condolences, they didn’t suffer.” He hadn’t seen the château staff, or maybe he had but he’d forgotten. The other children, the lucky ones, those spared, had already left. They had been swiftly evacuated.
He didn’t have to identify Léonine’s body, there was nothing left of it. He didn’t have to choose a coffin or readings for the ceremony, his parents had taken care of that. So he’d have nothing to choose. He’d thought: I never bought a pair of shoes, a dress, a barrette, socks for my daughter. It was Violette who did that, who liked doing that. But for the coffin, Violette wouldn’t be there. Violette would no longer be there. So he wouldn’t have to look after anyone.
In the evening, he’d phoned her from the hotel. It was the Marseillaise who’d answered. That’s what he called Célia. He’d remembered that he had asked her to come. Violette was sleeping. The doctor had made several visits to give her sedatives.
The funeral took place on July 18th, 1993.
The others, they held each other by the hand or arm, they supported each other. He hadn’t touched or spoken to anyone. His mother had tried, he had recoiled, like when she wanted to kiss him when he was fourteen.
The others, they had wept, wailed. The others, they had collapsed. Some women, flattened like reeds in a gale, had to be helped up. During the burial, one might have thought everyone there was drunk, no one could stay upright. He’d stood straight, without tears.
And then, in the huge crowd gathered around the tomb, he’d seen her. Dressed all in black. Very pale. With a faraway look. What the hell was Geneviève Magnan doing there? He had let it go. His heart wasn’t in anything anymore. He’d opened his heart to Françoise. He’d opened his heart to Violette and Léonine. That was the end of it.
The only sentence that crossed his mind a thousand times during those four days in Burgundy was: I didn’t even manage to protect my daughter.
Afterwards, the others, they’d go on holiday. Afterwards, the others, they’d remain there, in that wretched cemetery. And he would go home in his parents’ car, on the vast back seat, and at the end of the journey, there wouldn’t be the sea, but Violette and her untold grief.
An empty bedroom. A pink bedroom he’d always avoided. From which laughter could be heard, and the words Violette read aloud every evening.
Three years after this tragedy, alone in front of his daughter’s tomb, he had said nothing. Uttered not a word, not a prayer for her. And yet he knew plenty of prayers. He’d attended catechism classes, done his First Communion. That was the day he’d seen Françoise for the first time, on the arm of his uncle. The day he’d secretly recited, along with the big brother of a friend, while sipping the Communion wine:
Our Father who farts forever
Hallowed be thy bum
Thy condom come
Thy willy be done
On turds as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily beer
And forgive us our burps
As we forgive those who burp against us
And lead us not into penetration
But deliver us from perverts. Omen.
They’d laughed until they cried, especially after slipping their white surplices over their T-shirts and jeans. And they’d all mocked each other:
“You look like a priest!”
“And you like a sissy!”
And then he had seen Françoise. And had seen only her from then on.
She looked like his uncle’s daughter. She looked like a big sister. She looked like a dream mother. She looked like perfection. She looked like the love of one’s life. She looked like the love of his life.
He had wanted to see her again, and the more he saw her again, every year, the more he wanted to see her again.
Three years after the tragedy, standing before his daughter’s tomb, he’d thought he wouldn’t come to Brancion-en-Chalon anymore, seeing as not a word came out of him. Seeing as he was incapable of talking to Lèonine. He’d wanted to get back on his bike and go and see Françoise, throw himself into her arms. But the years had gone by and she had to be forgotten.
He must return to Violette, fall on his knees before her, beseech her, apologize to her. Seduce her like he’d seduced her at the beginning. Before the barrier and the trains. Try to look after her, make her laugh. Give her another child. After all, she was still so young, Violette. Tell her he was going to find out what really happened that night at the château, admit to her that he’d smashed Fontanel’s face in, and, in the past, had sex with Magnan. Admit to her that he was pathetic, but that he would get to the truth. Yes, give her another kid, and this time look after it. Maybe they would have a boy, a little lad, his dream. And he’d keep his nose clean. Stop sleeping around. Move to a new
