After the Crash (12 page)

Miromesnil.
Champs–Elysées–Clemenceau.
The stations rushed past. With each one, the carriage became

A pretty girl got on at Invalides. For a moment, Marc thought it
was Lylie, with her slender figure and her blonde hair. But only for
a moment. The metro was crawling with pretty blondes. And neither chance nor his whining messages on Lylie’s answering machine
would help him find her. The only thing that would help was an
attentive reading of this notebook.

An official letter containing Judge Weber’s decision was delivered to
the Vitrals’ letterbox, on Rue Pocholle, on the morning of 11 May
1981. The previous night, Dieppe’s vast seafront had been transformed into the scene of one gigantic party. Everyone had sung,
drunk, laughed, danced barefoot on the grass. Dieppe, the Red
City, the workers’ port, the town devastated by the gradual closure
of all its factories, had celebrated the election to the French presidency of François Mitterrand the way other towns celebrate Bastille
Day. Finally, the Left was in power. Finally, there were communists
in the government.
Change
: the word was on everyone’s lips. The
grand old lady of French seaside towns had donned her ballgown
for one night only, and it suited her to perfection.

Pierre and Nicole Vitral took part in the celebration, in their own
way. They had been waiting for this – fighting for it, marching in
support of it, distributing pamphlets – for a generation. Their van
stayed open almost all night, selling champagne and cider along
with their usual fare of crêpes, waffles and other snacks. But the
Vitrals had not been able to abandon themselves wholly to the city’s
joy. They were waiting for the judge’s letter, the final decision; they
still feared that the de Carvilles would appeal, that some last-minute development would arise. They had not wanted to celebrate
such an incredible victory until the official document was in their
hands and they could hold little Emilie (who was still being kept at
the nursery in Montbéliard) in their arms.

But, then again, who – even in Dieppe – had truly believed that
the Left would win the election?
It was about eight in the morning when Pierre opened the judge’s
letter. His hands were trembling. He had slept for only two hours
that night. Judge Weber’s letter left no room for doubt. The name
of the sole survivor of the Mont Terri crash was Emilie Vitral. Her
paternal grandparents were now her legal guardians. They could go
to Montbéliard to fetch her that very morning.
In Pollet, there was still plenty of champagne and food to be
shared around. The celebrations would continue.
The tenth and eleventh of May, 1981, were the most wonderful
days of their lives.

Mathilde de Carville waited until darkness fell before she approached
the Vitrals’ van. She had watched patiently while the last customers
were served. She had also made sure that Nicole Vitral was alone:
her husband was in Pollet, for the district meeting – as he was every
Wednesday evening. He was thinking seriously about standing
for local government. It was a warm May night, though windy, as
always.

Mathilde de Carville made her move on 13 May 1981, exactly two
days after the euphoria. It is not easy for me to write impartially
about her, as you will soon understand. If the portrait I paint of her
does not seem objective, you must at least believe in my sincerity.

Mathilde had trusted in her husband all the way through the
hearing; in her husband and in God. Until that point, she had
never had cause to complain about God, nor her husband for that
matter. Born into an aristocratic family in Angers that had moved
to the chic Parisian suburb of Coupvray, she was a gracious, intelligent, humane young woman, with a dash of malice à la Romy
Schneider. In her early twenties, Mathilde was admired, envied,
courted . . . but not for long. She put her trust in God, fell in love
with the first man heaven set in her path, and swore eternal fidelity
to him. This was Léonce, a brilliant, ambitious and penniless young
engineer. Little by little, the engineer destroyed every gracious
and humane impulse Mathilde had in her. But if God had willed
it thus . . .

With Mathilde came a dowry of inestimable value: her family
name. Mathilde de Carville. A name redolent of privilege and noble
blood. Léonce took his wife’s name, which is, of course, rather unusual. In order for a husband to do that, you need a genealogical tree
that goes all the way back St Louis. So, Mathilde gave her husband
her name, along with the several million francs in French treasury
bonds that he needed to found the de Carville company. Léonce’s
industrial genius did the rest: hence the company’s commercial success, the huge profits, the legal patents, the subsidiaries all around
the world. Up to that point, Mathilde must have believed that her
name had been wisely invested.

When God took her son Alexandre from her in that plane crash,
Mathilde did not doubt. That might seem strange to you, but years
of experience have taught me that misfortune tends to intensify religious belief rather than shake it. Divine injustice causes not revolt,
but submission, just as punishment leads to obedience. Mathilde
took the veil and atoned for her sins – only God knew what they
were. She trusted in God’s justice, and in the justice of men.

However, when Judge Weber decreed the death of her granddaughter, Mathilde doubted for the first time. Not in God, of
course, but she lost her belief in the justice of men. Her belief in
her husband, too.

Her faith changed. It was no longer simply contemplative, passive, submissive. Mathilde had now become aware that she was
God’s representative on Earth, that her faith was her strength, her
weapon. It gave her direction, a divine mission. She knew she had
to act.

I know where this kind of thinking can lead. All over the world,
people are busy killing each other on behalf of gods that never asked
them to do a thing. I had a taste of that in another life, before I
became a private detective.

Happily for Mathilde, her transformation went smoothly. She
simply believed that some men were deaf to the word of God, and
that the reason the Almighty had given her so much money was not
to undermine His decision, but so that she might use it to change
the order of things.

Filled with these new convictions, Mathilde de Carville made
two decisions. The first was that she would go to see Nicole Vitral,
that May evening on the seafront in Dieppe; a meeting that Nicole
Vitral still remembered in astonishing detail when I met her twenty
months later.

Nicole Vitral was instinctively cautious when she saw Mathilde de
Carville arrive. The two women had seen each other, weighed each
other up, during the hearing. Now, everything had changed. Nicole
Vitral knew her rights. Emilie was her granddaughter. No one, not
even a de Carville, could take that away from her. For that reason,
and that reason only, she agreed to hear what Mathilde de Carville
had to say.

Mathilde stood in front of the Citroën van. Nicole, standing
inside the vehicle, was a good seven inches taller than her. Mathilde’s voice was emotionless.

‘Madame Vitral, I will get straight to the point. Some bereavements are harder to bear than others. As I’m sure you will realise,
Judge Weber’s verdict was like a death penalty for us. In giving life
to one child, he has killed another.’

Nicole Vitral looked irritated, as if all she wanted to do was close
the metal shutter and leave it there.
Mathilde raised her voice slightly: ‘No, no, please hear me out.
You see, today, so soon after the verdict, we don’t realise what it
will be like. You have a baby to look after. Lyse-Rose is still fresh
in our memory. But in five, ten, twenty years? Lyse-Rose will never
have existed, never have played, never have gone to school. Emilie
will exist; she will live. The crash will be forgotten, and so will the
agonising doubt. She will be, forever, Emilie Vitral, and even if she
wasn’t really Emilie Vitral, that is who she will become. No one will
care anymore about what happened just after her birth.’
A gust of cold wind made the orange-and-red canvas awning flap
noisily against the van. Nicole Vitral felt embarrassed, ill at ease,
but she did not interrupt.
‘Nicole . . . May I call you Nicole? Yes, some bereavements are
harder to bear. I will never have a gravestone where I can leave
flowers, no slab of marble with her name engraved on it. Because
if I did that, Nicole, if I grieved for Lyse-Rose as if she were dead,
if I prayed for her soul, I would be a monster! Because I would be
burying someone who is, perhaps, alive . . .’
‘Here we go!’ said Nicole Vitral coldly.
‘No, Nicole, you don’t understand. Hear me out before you
judge me. I do not want to take Emilie away from you. It’s all quite
simple from your perspective. If she really is your granddaughter,
then everything has worked out perfectly. If she is not yours, then
you will raise her like an adopted child. The uncertainty no longer
matters to you. But for me, that uncertainty, that doubt . . .’
‘What is your point?’ Nicole demanded. She had grown in confidence since this case began, through her dealings with the media,
the lawyers, the police. In the same loud voice, she said: ‘Do you
want the child to call you “granny”? To phone you from time to
time? You want to invite her on the first Sunday of each month for
biscuits and tea?’
Mathilde de Carville did not bat an eyelid.
‘There is no need to be cruel, Nicole. Lyse-Rose is dead. But inevitably, you must be feeling the same way I do. That sweet little baby
you love so much, you will call her Emilie, but deep down, you will
never know. Neither of us will. Life has trapped us.’
Nicole sighed. ‘All right, go on. What do you want?’
‘All I want is to be able to help this child. If she is Lyse-Rose, then
my conscience will be clear. If she is Emilie, well . . . good for her.’
Nicole Vitral leaned over the counter and stared at Mathilde de
Carville. ‘What do you mean by help? You mean seeing her?’
‘No . . . I think it’s better if she doesn’t know about me. I don’t
know if you intend to tell Emilie about this business at some point,
but I believe it would be better for her if she remained unaware of
it for as long as possible. I have no desire to watch her as she comes
out of school in the afternoons. To see her grow up through a windscreen, hoping to spot some resemblance to my son. That is not my
style. I couldn’t bear it.’
Mathilde gave a strange, uncharacteristic laugh.
‘No, Nicole, the rich have more radical ways of easing their
conscience.’
‘Money, you mean?’
‘Yes, money. Don’t get on your high horse, Nicole. I’m not trying
to buy the child, like my husband did. This is not a bribe or a negotiation. It is simply a gift, to her. I ask for nothing in exchange.’
Nicole was about to reply but Mathilde did not give her time.
‘Don’t refuse, Nicole. You have Emilie – you’ve won. I am not
trying to buy you. I am not buying anything. Just think about it:
why refuse Emilie this money, this windfall?’
‘I haven’t refused it,’ Nicole said coldly. ‘Nor have I accepted
it.’ She spoke more quietly: ‘What you are proposing is . . .
complicated.’
‘Open a bank account in Emilie’s name. That’s all you have to
do . . .’
Nicole Vitral’s lips trembled.
‘And afterwards?’
‘Emilie will receive one hundred thousand francs per year, paid
into that account. Until she is eighteen years old. This money will
be for her use only: for her education, her hobbies, to give her the
best possible chance in life. Of course, it will be up to you to manage
that money during those eighteen years. You may do as you like. I
am simply giving you the means . . .’
For several seconds, Nicole Vitral was silent. She felt herself being
rocked by the sound of the shingle, swept endlessly back and forth
by the ebb and flow of the waves.
Ebb and flow. For and against.
Finally, she said: ‘I will open the account, Mrs de Carville. For
Emilie. Because if I didn’t do that, I might feel guilty. She might
reproach me for it afterwards. Pour your money into it if you
want . . .’
‘Thank you.’
‘. . . but we will not touch it!’ Nicole almost screamed. ‘Emilie
will be educated exactly like her brother Marc, and we will pay for
it ourselves. We will make sacrifices if we have to, but we will do
it. When she is eighteen, Emilie can do what she wants with that
money. It will be up to her. You understand?’
Mathilde de Carville gave a faint, wry smile. ‘You are cruel,
Nicole. But I thank you, all the same.’ After a second’s hesitation,
she continued: ‘May I ask you a second favour?’
Nicole Vitral gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I don’t know. Make it
quick. I’m about to close.’
Mathilde took out a royal-blue jewellery box from the pocket of
her long coat. She opened it, took a step forward and placed it on
the counter. Nicole stared helplessly at the pale sapphire in the ring.
‘It is a very old tradition,’ said Mathilde calmly. ‘For their eighteenth birthday, the girls in our family always receive a ring set with
a stone the colour of their eyes. It has been like that for generations.
I am wearing a ring given to me by my mother more than thirty
years ago. Sadly, I will never have the chance to do the same for
Lyse-Rose.’
Nicole Vitral finally looked up. ‘I’m probably being stupid, but I
don’t understand . . .’
‘I am leaving this ring with you. Take care of it. Perhaps in three
years, or in ten years, simply by spending time with Emilie, you will
guess. You will know instinctively if she is your granddaughter or
not. If that happens, and if, deep in your heart, you are certain that
the granddaughter you have brought up is not of your own blood,
I think you will keep that secret to yourself . . .’
She took a breath, her eyes glistening. ‘And it will probably be
better that way, for the girl at least. But if that does happen – if,
through the years, you find evidence or simply come to feel certain
that she is not your granddaughter – then please, on her eighteenth
birthday, give her this ring. No one but the two of us will know
what it means. But that way, for you and for me, justice will be
served.’
Nicole Vitral was going to refuse, to give back the ring, to tell
this woman that her idea was ludicrous, sick, but Mathilde de Carville did not give her the chance. Without even waiting for a reply,
she turned around and walked away, her long dark coat melting
into the twilight.
The royal-blue jewellery box remained where it was, on the
counter.