Читать книгу Strangled in Paris: 6th Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 7

The storm was battering the Normandy coast. It had swept through the British Isles, attacked the Pas de Calais and had now reached the Cotentin peninsula, where it was venting its full force on the La Hague headland.

Corentin Jourdan lay fully dressed on his four-poster bed listening to the great gusts and squalls shaking the walls. The fire flickered. A piece of canvas hung from the mantelpiece to stop the smoke filling the room. The flames threw bright, fleeting tongues of light onto the copper cistern and the old grandfather clock. Two carved birds’ heads seemed about to fly away from the corners of the wardrobe. A raucous miaowing briefly made itself heard above the tumult: the terrified cat was scratching at the front door. Corentin sat up. A ball of dirty fur with a pink nose and curly whiskers hurtled in through the cat flap and burrowed into the warmth of the eiderdown.

‘Now, Gilliatt, is that any way for an old ship’s mascot to behave? There’s nothing to get excited about!’

An explosion of noise drowned out his words: the thatched roof of the shed had just been torn off. Corentin grew more and more anxious as he heard the tempest attack his stock of dry logs, and he tried to calculate the damage. He would have to get the roof seen to by old Pignol, a real crook but the best thatcher for miles around. A loud neighing suddenly erupted from the stable next door: Flip was getting nervous. Just as long as he didn’t start kicking the walls down!

No doubt hoping to evade the worst of the weather, the old tomcat curled up under his master’s arm, purring loudly. Corentin smiled.

‘Chin up, Gilliatt! It’s only a little shower!’

He had seen worse when he used to navigate the Marie-Jeanneton around the Channel Islands. If it hadn’t been for that confounded spar, which had split during a squall and crushed his foot, he would never have left the navy.

He sighed deeply. Even though his house was a quarter of a mile from the shore, the sound of the breakers filled his room like the baying of a ghostly pack of hounds. The pounding of the surf reverberated inside him, soothing him. He sank into sleep.

When he woke, he felt once again the subtle stirring of fear he had battled ever since the accident. He had had to make a supreme effort to prevent the combination of inactivity and physical suffering getting the better of him. He had hated lying immobile on a hospital bed, dependent on the goodwill of others and far away from the salt air of the open sea. The enforced confinement had left him with no choice but to reflect on his past. For weeks he tried to work out whether he had made a mistake; why the stupid accident? At forty, with two-thirds of his life already gone, what did he have to look forward to? He had quickly recognised the brutal truth that no ship’s captain would ever trust a cripple. At that realisation he had fallen into deep despair as he thought longingly of the familiar, reassuring atmosphere of the Marie-Jeanneton.

A sickly, yellowish dawn was struggling to break, and in its pale light he saw Gilliatt, perched on a cupboard with incriminating crumbs of meat and pastry stuck to his whiskers.

Corentin stretched, and remembered his dream. Once again, Clélia had appeared, transparent and inaccessible. The only woman he had ever loved, the only woman he had never possessed, still haunted him. The memory of all the others, kitchen maids or working girls, whose services were freely offered, faded as soon as his desire was satisfied: only the unattainable woman had been able to capture and hold his imagination for such a long time.

He decided to go out. There might be someone in need of his help. Despite his general misanthropy, he was careful to maintain good relations with his neighbours; after all, it had been his decision to limit his life to this little huddle of cottages.

A squall of rain whipped his face. He jammed his hat more firmly on his head, glanced at the increasingly grey sky and pushed open the stable door. Flip’s tail and mane were ruffled by the wind. The mice feasting in the hay ran off, squeaking. He lit his lamp.

‘Hello there, Flip!’

The horse quivered at the sight of his master. Corentin patted his flank and fed him a sugarlump from his open palm.

‘A little treat from your groom, you old misery. There there, easy now, the storm’s dying down.’

The horse slowly rubbed his muzzle against the wood of his stall before deigning to accept the titbit.

‘Heavens above, Flip, stop looking at me like that!’ cried Corentin, rummaging in the bag full of grain. Flip pawed the ground happily and plunged his nose into the handful of oats that was offered to him.

‘Don’t make a mess, now.’

Corentin patted his neck, put fresh hay in the rack and extinguished the lantern.

‘Be good now, won’t you? Don’t kick anything over,’ he said, fastening the door.

Outside, a cold wind raked the distant hills. Corentin walked on, past the Chaulards’ farm, huddled behind its hillock like a frightened animal. The windows rattled in their frames and the whole building creaked. He couldn’t see a living soul.

He staggered down the slope, tossed about in the wind like a skiff bobbing on the sea. It was at times like this, when there was a big storm, that he most regretted the loss of his own boat. On board a ship, he used to be able to grapple with bad weather in an equal fight; on dry land, he was at the mercy of the slightest squall.

Looking out to sea, Corentin could see the waves tipped with glints of silver. He crossed a stream, now a torrent, gazed briefly at the cliffs obscured by clouds of sea-spray and turned his back on them. The main street in Landemer zigzagged between fishermen’s cottages and a few large villas converted for the summer into family boarding houses. The customs officer’s house had lost its ostentatious ceramic decoration and the smashed remains lay forlornly in the middle of the front garden. Corentin slowed down as he reached the inn, turning up the collar of his oilskin jacket. At this time of day the fish market was usually in full swing, but today the place was eerily empty. He turned towards the beach, dodging as best he could the buffeting breath of the invisible demon.

The raging waves had thrown up a wall of pebbles at the edge of the sand, which was now gradually emerging as the tide receded. The boiling cauldron of the sea was capitulating regretfully. To the right of the fort, there was a pale patch in the water – a flock of birds? Corentin had previously spotted storm petrels here, blown off course from the Orkney Islands.

He walked on for another hundred yards, happy to find himself in the deserted spot where he had spent so many hours observing wildlife and combing the beach for driftwood and curious stones. His solitary walks here had brought him a sense of peace and security. Except for occasional conversations with Madame Guénéqué, who came to clean his little house and to cook for him, Corentin led a solitary existence.

Leaden clouds raced along the horizon, and an angry wind whipped the waves into crests before flattening them again. Corentin squinted into the distance. No, that wasn’t a flock of birds, it was something much bigger. Driven against the reef, a schooner must have struck a rock, where its boom and bowsprit had shattered. The broken mast hung at a sickening angle; people on the bridge ran to and fro, dropping lines to evacuate the vessel. Small boats were bustling around the great carcass. So that was where all the inhabitants of Landemer and Urville had gone. They would have to work fast: the waves would soon pull the wreck under the sea.

He thought of all the fishermen who must have died, and of the captain of the vessel who, probably heading to France from England, had been presumptuous enough to defy the warning of such a troubled sea. Corentin, too, had often thought himself invincible.

Near Gréville, several small, wide skiffs were setting off towards the wreck, and he hurried on, impatient to join them. Suddenly, he stopped, still and attentive. A dark mass undulated in the ebbing tide. For a few seconds he stood motionless, shading his eyes, until all at once he understood, and began to run. A little girl or a woman lay in the foaming water, like a siren caught in the sticky net of seaweed.

Half carrying, half dragging the unconscious form out of the water, he staggered up onto the beach, and gazed in shock at the young woman’s face. Clélia? No! Clélia had been dead for twenty years. Acting instinctively, he loosened her clenched teeth with the stem of his pipe, cleared the mucus and seaweed out of her throat with his fingers and put his ear to her chest. Her heart was beating weakly. He knelt down and, seizing her wrists, began to raise and lower her arms vigorously, pressing on her chest with each downward movement. All this came to him automatically, with an expertise gained from twenty-five years of experience. He repeated this manoeuvre fifteen times every minute, his only thought to bring the unknown woman back to life.

All at once, she was racked by a great spasm and coughed violently before falling back again, inert. He took off his jacket and wrapped it round her. As he hoisted her up, he felt something digging into him: tied around the woman’s wrist was a cord with a small leather bag hanging from it.

Buffeted by the wind, he began to struggle back up the beach. Slight and fragile as his burden was, her drenched clothes made her heavy, and getting her back to his house was no easy task. The dunes seemed to have blurred into a grey mist, which danced before his eyes. He had to stop halfway to get a firmer grip on his charge, finally hauling her over his shoulder. The rain had set in again and he began to fear that the seeming calm had been misleading. When he finally reached his house, his mouth was parched and he had a burning pain in his back. Inside, it was bitterly cold.

With a sigh of relief, he laid the woman on the eiderdown and hurried to light a fire. Still limping, he rushed into the woodshed. The sodden logs would be useless. He turned back.

Ignoring Gilliatt, who was mewing for food, he grasped a hatchet and hacked two of his wooden chairs to pieces. As the flames engulfed them, he remembered that he had stored several bundles of heather at the back of the stable. He collected these, along with a crate that had once held bottles of cider: enough to keep the fire alive for at least an hour.

The woman groaned, her eyes still closed. She wore a small blue earring in her left ear but the right one was missing. He felt her pulse, which was racing. Her forehead was damp. He needed to undress her and rub her skin to get her circulation going. Quickly removing her bag and the jacket he had wrapped around her, he hesitated when confronted with her dress. So many buttons! He tore one off, undid another, and then resorted to more drastic measures. Using a knife, he cut away layer after layer of clothing. Tatters of cloth – skirt, bodice and petticoat – were strewn over the tiled floor. He felt as though he were peeling a fruit with an endless number of skins. Just as he thought he had finished, he came to a final barrier: the corset, as rigid as a breastplate. Clumsily, he undid the stays, and with a last effort separated the two halves of the armour, revealing her breasts, round, supple and generous. With trembling hands, he removed her lace drawers and torn stockings. Her legs were covered in scratches and the corset had left its impression on her skin, but nonetheless she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Not daring to touch any other part of her, he rubbed her frozen feet timidly.

Intrigued, Gilliatt began to sniff the woman’s body, nudging his nose between her legs. With a sweep of his hand, Corentin sent the cat flying, and Gilliatt leapt up onto the canopy of the bed.

Corentin uncorked a bottle of plum brandy that he kept for special occasions and dampened his hands with the alcohol. He slowly began to massage the woman’s skin, but stopped at her waist, hesitating to go any higher. The cat’s mewing brought his attention back to the task in hand. Applying a few more drops of brandy to his palms, he accelerated his massage. Her breasts were soft to his touch, and he moved down to her thighs, working methodically. He was calm now, her nudity no longer troubling him. He moved over the nape of her neck, her back, curving in so delightfully at the waist, her arms, her stomach, her thighs …

The bottle was empty and the woman lay, still unconscious, stretched out on her side, impregnated with alcohol and pink from having been rubbed all over. When he had cleaned her wounds, he covered them with a balsam pomade scented with mint. Reaching into the wardrobe, he unfolded a sheet, placed it over the woman’s body and piled several blankets on top.

The fire was dying down, so Corentin sacrificed a third chair, and hurried to the stable, where he grabbed the last bundles of heather and two more wooden crates from under Flip’s nose. Throwing all these provisions into a wheelbarrow, he made his way back via the shed and managed to find two logs that were less sodden than the others. He spread all this new fuel out next to the fireplace, and leant the logs against the fire-back to dry.

He felt drained of all strength. A sharp pain throbbed in his leg, just above the knee. He leant on the edge of the table, trying to get his breath back, and began to shiver, overcome by weariness after all the tensions of the day. He changed his clothes, cut himself a large hunk of bread and reduced another crate to splinters, immediately giving it up to the hungry flames. This time, the fireplace, satisfied with the offering, gave out an intense burst of heat. Corentin poured himself a tankard of cider and sat down beside the woman.

She looked young, no more than twenty-five. She was tanned, which showed that she had lived in the sun. And were her eyes even darker than the thick curls of her hair? And how would her lips taste? It was difficult to resist the temptation to find out. He held firm, but after a few moments pulled away the sheet to reveal her body, gazing in silent admiration, then reached out to caress a shoulder, the curve of a breast, her neck. Then, springing up so brusquely that he knocked over his stool, he pulled the covers back over her.

Was he going mad? He had learnt to protect himself with a shield of indifference. He had kept to himself, avoided all intimacy and turned off his emotions. This woman was the first to threaten his serenity since Clélia. The only explanation he could find was that the exertion had affected him more than he cared to admit.

He went up the steps to his attic room, a familiar little world that he had created when his sailing days had come to an end. A homely, comforting smell of tobacco, apples and ink hung in the air, and cases filled with watercolours and sketchbooks served as reminders of his past life. Two stuffed deities reigned over the chaotic piles of souvenirs from his travels: a great black cormorant and a chough. Scattered pages related stories from his youth when, as a young sailor, he had plied the seas of North Africa and the East. The small desk was covered with clothbound notebooks along with two paperweights and a paraffin lamp. Beside the desk, a sextant and a telescope jostled for space with pots of herbs and jars of pickled samphire. The carefully reconstructed skeleton of a tawny owl kept watch over a little trestle bed covered in books. On the rough wattle walls hung several drawings by Jean-François Millet, left to him by his uncle Gaspard, who had bought them when the painter had returned to his native village near Landemer. Corentin’s favourite was a sketch of a shepherd herding his flock by moonlight. He was also particularly fond of the large circular map of the world that he had copied from one by Mercator. One of the cupboards was filled with dozens of nautical charts, although the chart showing the seas near his home was redundant because Corentin (like Gilliatt, the hero of Victor Hugo’s Toilers of the Sea, for whom the cat was named) was ‘born with a map of the bed of the English Channel inscribed in his head’.

Corentin lit his pipe. Without warning, Clélia appeared before him. If only he had married her, his beloved cousin! She had been seduced by a travelling puppeteer in Cherbourg, and followed him to Paris where, abandoned and miserable, she had died of puerperal fever. He had only found this out after endless searching and questioning. He had never been able to discover where she was buried.

‘What does it matter, anyway?’ he muttered, getting up and standing by the window. The apple trees in the paddock were bending in the strong west wind. The slate-coloured sky was indistinguishable from the sea.

He went back downstairs. Obviously in the grip of a nightmare, the woman was muttering incoherent words. Her expression alarmed him and he stroked her cheek gently. A sudden and overwhelming emotion surged through him. Had they been destined to meet? He had seen too much of life and had too many strange encounters to believe that the course of events was decided by chance alone. His gaze still fixed on the stranger, he resolved never again to expose himself to the pain and bitterness of love. And yet, and yet … He felt his defences crumbling, all those barriers put up during the years of solitude and despair. It felt good to have a woman under his roof.

Her eyelids fluttered.

‘You’re safe.’

Who could have said those words? Would this rolling and swaying never stop? Everything seemed dark, and she was floating in the midst of a foaming sea, which filled her nose and mouth, choking her.

She concentrated, trying to understand this voice that seemed to be speaking, but that she could barely hear. She attempted to move, but the pain of the blood returning to her limbs made her cry out. Oh God, where was she?

‘Don’t be afraid.’

The voice resonated like someone calling in an empty house. She had to fight, she had to stay alive.

Could the tall figure with the head of curly hair surrounded by a halo of light be the ship’s doctor? She felt hot. A sudden dizziness made the walls spin, then her confusion cleared, revealing the phosphorescent pupils of a cat and the torso of a man leaning over her.

‘Are you all right?’

His voice seemed clearer now.

‘Are we in Southampton?’ she murmured.

‘No, in France.’

She tried to sit up, but a hand pushed her back. She wanted to resist, but she was so tired. The voice again: ‘You must rest.’

She pretended she was falling asleep again but managed to look about her. She could make out a fireplace, and a pewter pot filled with flowering thistles placed on a large table. To one side, rows of painted plates lined the shelves of a large dresser. The man held a globe lamp and she was able to see a large ham hanging from one of the beams. Strange forms were projected on the uneven wattle and lath walls, as lifelike as that of the large grey cat curled up in front of the fire.

Disconnected images flitted through her mind. Boarding the Eagle at Southampton after meeting her husband’s lawyer. The captain, a squat, podgy man who stood too close to her and assured her that he knew this stretch of water like the back of his hand and that, storm or no storm, they would reach France that very day. The fear she had felt as she clung to the vessel, while it was tossed and whirled by enormous waves that all seemed intent on one thing: destroying the little boat and destroying her with it. Before that, the journey from San Francisco to New York and then the calm voyage all the way to the south of England.

At the head of the bed, Corentin was scraping his pipe out into an earthenware cup, his mind full of strange and sombre thoughts. A man like him needed something to give his life meaning. Something like a woman’s love, perhaps? All that had been taken from him. He felt a thirst in his soul, as though he had lived, like a second Robinson Crusoe, on nothing but smoked herrings with never a drop of fresh water.

He was just drifting off to sleep when, heralded by a great gust of cold air, Madame Guénéqué burst in. She was a robust country woman of about fifty, the widow of a man who had devoted most of his short life to the art of brewing his own beer and cider. She had been left to bring up their numerous offspring and had earned her living as a servant in the great houses of the area. Now, she managed to get by working as a cook and cleaner.

‘Hello, Captain, sorry I’m late. I didn’t dare stick my nose outside earlier, on account of all that wind. It’s brightening up now, though – look at the sky. Rain and sunshine all at once – it’s the devil beating his missus and marrying off his daughter. It’s a crying shame. A good few boats have been wrecked – it’s always the same when they come. One storm, and it lasts three days! Oh, you’ve got a visitor?’

‘I found her unconscious early this morning. I suppose she must have been a passenger on the schooner. I did my best to get her warm.’

Quick as a flash, Madame Guénéqué closed the door and scuttled over to the bed to size up the newcomer. When she caught sight of the scraps of clothing lying on the floor, her wrinkled old face lit up with a roguish smile.

‘So that’s why you decided to peel her like an onion?’

‘It was either that or leave her to die. And if I’d done that I’d have been able to inspect her intimately and at my leisure.’

‘Oh, don’t get cross. I was only saying …’

‘I was just answering your question,’ replied Corentin in a conciliatory tone. ‘Now, help yourself to some coffee.’

But it was too much to ask of Madame Guénéqué that she would leave it there.

‘Ha. And what’s happened to your chairs? They’re in a pretty state! And is this person going to stay here for long?’

‘I was waiting for you to come so that I could go out and ask the nuns at the infirmary to send someone to collect her.’

‘I’d do it sharpish if I were you. When my poor old man fell head first into the cider vat, his friends did the best they could to get him to cough it all up, but in the end his heart gave out.’

‘I’m going now. Keep the fire burning while I’m gone and, if she wakes up and wants to eat, there are eggs and sausages in the cupboard.’

‘Don’t you worry, she won’t die of hunger. I’ll make her some nice hot soup.’ She rolled up her sleeves and set to work. ‘He may be an old hermit,’ she muttered, ‘but he’s still got a soft spot for the ladies.’

Outside, Corentin Jourdan filled his lungs with the damp air, relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The wind had wreaked havoc among the rose bushes and mallow plants: the trees were bent and splayed into tortured shapes, and crows fluttered to and fro among the broken branches. The bakehouse was flooded and the geese were honking in the little yard, which was white with their droppings.

He released Flip and put his harness on. The horse, an Anglo-Norman with a long nose, shook his mane in pleasure at the prospect of escaping from his confinement. With his master in the saddle, left leg hanging free of the stirrup, he walked along the shore, punctuating the monotonous calls of the seagulls with his whinnying.

They crossed the stream just as the church bell was tolling. A silent crowd gathered in front of the church doors, which were surmounted by a relief of St Martin. Urville’s gravediggers would have their work cut out this evening.

He had to knock on the large double doors several times before a little hatch was pulled half open. A young nun stared at him while he explained his case. The sister retorted that the mother superior would do what she could as soon as possible but that all the beds were full because of the storm. He was insistent.

‘This woman has a high fever. Who knows how long she may have been in the water? It’s a miracle that she’s still of this world.’

An older nun brushed the novice aside and examined Corentin, adjusting her spectacles.

‘Sister Ursula is right, Captain Jourdan, we are run off our feet here. Still, I shall send Landry, the gardener’s son, to collect the woman, and we’ll put her up in the annexe.’

He thanked the mother superior warmly. He had earned her gratitude one winter day in 1892 when he had helped repair one of the walls of the infirmary which had fallen down, and had accepted nothing by way of a reward except for a bowl of coffee and some bread and butter.

She kept her word. Five minutes later, Landry’s shock of red hair could be seen bobbing along towards Landemer behind the nuns’ old nag. From a distance, Corentin Jourdan watched the cart rattling over the potholed path.

From the shelter of the stable, he observed the boy and Madame Guénéqué carrying the woman, wrapped up like a mummy, as best they could towards the cart. When Landry had disappeared round the bend, Corentin took the saddle off his horse and let it graze.

‘You missed them,’ remarked Madame Guénéqué when he came in. A pot hung over the fire, simmering and giving off an appetising smell of vegetables and ham. ‘She didn’t open her eyes or her mouth, poor thing.’

Having finished cleaning the ground floor, Madame Guénéqué was putting on her shawl. The loft was forbidden territory, except when her employer was away.

‘I’m going to see old Pignol.’

‘Don’t forget to tell him about the roof. The weather’s settling down now, but still …’

‘Don’t worry, I will. See you on Wednesday, Captain. And remember to dig out that washtub for me – there’s a ton of washing to be done.’

She shot a poisonous glance at Gilliatt, spread-eagled in the middle of the bed.

When she had gone, Corentin Jourdan let out a sigh. A few short hours had been enough for a stranger to turn his routine upside down. He lay down next to the cat, overcome with fatigue.

In the middle of the night he got up, poked the remains of the fire and added the remnants of one of the crates. He served himself a bowl of warm soup and sat down in the chimney corner. At his feet, Gilliatt lapped at a saucer of milk. The regular sound of the cat’s little pink tongue flicking back and forth sent Corentin off into a daydream. He recalled a vision he had once had: a naked water sprite was holding him in her arms, and a blue aura hung around her jet-black hair.

What was happening to him? It was the first time in twenty years that he had become so obsessed by something. Ashamed of behaving like a dreamy adolescent, Corentin got up and was about to make for the attic when he saw something under the bed. He bent down and picked up the woman’s bag. Madame Guénéqué’s broom wasn’t always very thorough.

He lit a candle and went up to the attic. Uncertain what to do, he looked thoughtfully at his find. Should he open it? If he did, he risked becoming attached to the woman, rather than freeing himself from her. He had resolved never to leave his home here where his frugal way of life, combined with the money left by his uncle, meant that he was independent, almost rich. He was entirely at peace with the world, because his heart was not pierced by any thorns of emotion, and because he hardly ever saw other people and only had a horse and a cat to look after.

‘Is she married?’

Unable to resist, he picked up the bag. The leather had protected an address book, a bulging purse and a wad of papers tied up in a triple layer of oilcloth. Where to start? He began with a crinkled beige envelope, pulling out a blue notebook whose pages were covered in small writing. He settled himself on the trestle bed, began reading and didn’t stop until he had read the whole thing.

When morning came, he put the notebook back where he had found it and went to stand by the window. In the courtyard below, a timid ray of sunlight projected the black shadow of the chimney onto the wall. Between two buildings, there was a glimpse of the sea, calm as a millpond. He looked at it for a moment, his pipe in his mouth, lost in thought. The clear horizon seemed to bode well for the day and he set off to take the woman’s bag to the nuns.

He was told that, after a difficult night, the woman seemed, according to the doctor, to be out of danger. Her name was Sophie Clairsange. A sailor from the Eagle had brought her suitcase, full of beautiful clothes. The poor woman was still fragile, but had managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of food. Would the captain like to see her?

Corentin instructed the novice not to reveal his identity if Sophie Clairsange should happen to ask about him. Surprised, the novice promised to do as he asked.

He left. At Urville, he bought La Lanterne Manchoise hot off the press. A front-page article on the wreck of the schooner recorded that there had been no casualties. Elsewhere, the newspaper bemoaned the uprooting of trees in Cherbourg, which was causing chaos on the main road into the town.

He set off back to the sanctuary of his own home.