The Saint-Fiacre Affair (7 page)

And her tone was the one in which she
might have said, for example: ‘I'm afraid of everything! I don't
know what's going on. Holy Virgin, protect me!'

The inspector looked at her
affectionately. She had always looked as fearful and sickly as she did now.

‘Marie, do you remember
 …'

Her eyes widened. She was already making a
defensive movement.

‘… the thing that happened with
the frogs?'

‘But … who …'

‘Your mother had sent you to pick
mushrooms in the field behind the Notre-Dame pond … Three boys were playing there …
They took advantage of a moment when you were thinking about something else to swap
the mushrooms in your basket for frogs … And all the way home you were worried
because the things were croaking …'

She had been studying him attentively
for a few moments, and at last she stammered: ‘Maigret?'

‘Look! Monsieur Jean has finished
his chicken and is ready for his next course.'

And all of a sudden Marie Tatin seemed
completely transformed: she was more troubled than before, but also, increasingly,
more trusting.

How odd life was! Years and years
without the slightest incident, with nothing to break the monotony of the days. And
then, all of a sudden, incomprehensible events, dramas, things you don't even
read in the newspapers!

As she served Jean Métayer and the
villagers, she sometimes gave Maigret a look of complicity. When he had finished,
she asked shyly:

‘Will you take a little glass of
brandy, sir?'

‘You used to call me by my first
name, Marie!'

She laughed. No, she didn't
dare!

‘But you haven't had lunch
yourself!'

‘No, I have! I always eat in the
kitchen, without stopping. A mouthful now … A mouthful later …'

A motorbike passed along the road. They
could just make out a more elegant young man than most of the inhabitants of
Saint-Fiacre.

‘Who was that?'

‘Didn't you see him this
morning? Émile Gautier, the estate manager's son.'

‘Where's he
going?'

‘Probably Moulins! He's
practically a city-dweller. He works in a bank.'

People could be seen coming out of their
houses, walking along the road or heading towards the cemetery.

Strangely, Maigret was sleepy. He felt
exhausted, as if he had been over-exerting himself. And it wasn't because he
had got up at half past five in the morning, or because he had caught a cold.

It was the atmosphere that was
oppressing him. He felt personally affected by events, and filled with disgust.

Yes, disgust! That was the word! He had
never imagined that he would find his village in this state. Even his father's
grave, the stone quite blackened, where he had been told he couldn't
smoke!

Opposite him, Jean Métayer emanated
self-confidence. He knew he was being watched. As he ate, he forced himself to
remain calm and even affected a vaguely contemptuous smile.

‘A little glass?' Marie
Tatin suggested to him as well.

‘No, thank you! I never drink
alcohol …'

He was polite. He liked to display good
manners on all occasions. At the inn he ate with the same precious gestures as he
would have done at the chateau.

Once his meal was finished, he asked:
‘Do you have a telephone?'

‘No, but there's one
opposite, in the kiosk …'

He crossed the road and went into the
grocery shop run by the sacristan, where the kiosk was situated. He must have been
asking for a long-distance call, because he was seen waiting in the shop for a long
time, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

When he came back, the villagers had
left the inn. Marie Tatin washed the glasses in anticipation of Vespers, which would
bring in new customers.

‘Who were you calling? Remember
that I can find out by going to the telephone …'

‘My father, in Bourges.'

His voice was brusque, aggressive.

‘I asked him to send me a lawyer
straight away.'

He was like one of those yappy little
dogs who show their teeth even before you go to touch them.

‘Are you so sure that
they're going to bother you?'

‘I will ask you not to speak to me
before my lawyer arrives. Believe me, I'm sorry there's only one inn
around here.'

Did he hear the words that the inspector
muttered as he left?

‘Idiot! … Stupid little idiot
 …'

And Marie Tatin, although she
didn't know why, was afraid to be left on her own with him.

The whole day would be marked by chaos,
by indecision, probably because no one felt qualified to take control of events.

Maigret, wrapped up in his heavy overcoat,
was wandering about the village. He was seen now in the church square, now around
the chateau, whose windows were lighting up one by one.

For night was falling quickly. The
church was illuminated and echoed with the sound of organ music. The bell-ringer
closed the cemetery gate.

And groups of people, barely visible in
the darkness, had gathered to ask each other whether they should visit the bedside
of the deceased. Two men set off first, and were received by the butler, who
didn't know what was supposed to happen either. No tray had been prepared for
visiting cards. They tried to find Maurice de Saint-Fiacre to ask his advice, and
the Russian girl replied that he had gone for a walk.

She was lying down, fully clothed,
smoking cigarettes with a cardboard filter.

Then the maid ushered the people in with
a shrug of indifference.

That was the signal. There were hurried
confabs at the end of Vespers.

‘No, they are! Old Martin and
young Bonnet have been already!'

Everyone went, in procession. The
chateau was dimly lit. The villagers walked along the corridor, and silhouettes
stood out at each window in turn. They held their children by the hand, shaking them
to stop them making any noise.

The stairs. The first-floor corridor.
And at last the bedroom, which the people entered for the first time.

The only person there was the
countess's maid, who
witnessed the
invasion with horror. People crossed themselves with a spring of boxwood dipped in
holy water. The more audacious of them murmured beneath their breath: ‘She
looks as if she's sleeping!'

And others, in an echo:

‘She didn't suffer
 …'

Then footsteps rang out on the uneven
parquet floor. The stairs creaked. People were heard saying:

‘Shh! … Hold on tightly to the
banister …'

The cook, in her kitchen in the
basement, saw only the legs of the people passing.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre came back just
as the house was being invaded. He looked wide-eyed at the villagers. The visitors
wondered whether they were supposed to talk to him or not. But he just nodded to
them and went into Marie Vassiliev's room, where they heard English being
spoken.

Maigret was in the church. The
sacristan, snuffer in hand, was walking from candle to candle. The priest was taking
off his sacerdotal garments in the sacristy.

On each side, the confessionals with
their little green curtains designed to shield the penitents from view. Maigret
remembered when his face didn't come up high enough to be hidden by the
curtain.

Behind him the bell-ringer, who
hadn't seen him, was closing the main door and drawing the bolts.

Then all of a sudden the inspector
crossed the nave and stepped into the sacristy, where the priest was startled to see
him appear.

‘I'm sorry, Father! Before I
do anything else I'd like to ask you a question …'

In front of him, the priest's regular
features were serious, but it seemed to Maigret that his eyes blazed with fever.

‘This morning, a disturbing event
took place. The countess's missal, which was on her prie-dieu, suddenly
disappeared and was found hidden under the altar boy's surplice, in this very
room …'

Silence. The sound of the
sacristan's footsteps on the church carpet. The louder footsteps of the
bell-ringer leaving by a side door.

‘Only four people could have … I
must ask you to excuse me … The altar boy, the sacristan, the bell-ringer and
 …'

‘Me!'

His voice was calm. The priest's
face was lit only on one side by the flickering flame of a candle. From a censer, a
thin thread of white smoke rose in spirals towards the ceiling.

‘Was it …?'

‘I was the one who took the missal
and put it here, while waiting for …'

The box of communion wafers, the cruets,
the two-note bell were in their place, as they had been when little Maigret was an
altar boy.

‘Did you know what the missal
contained?'

‘No.'

‘In that case …'

‘I must ask you not to question me
further, Monsieur Maigret. It's the secret of the confessional …'

An involuntary association of ideas. The
inspector remembered the catechism, in the dining room at the presbytery. And the
edifying image that had formed in his
mind
when the old priest had told the story of a medieval priest who had had his tongue
ripped out rather than betray the secret of the confessional.

He found it preserved intact on his
retina, after thirty-five years.

‘You know the murderer …' he
murmured none the less.

‘God knows him … Excuse me … I
have to attend to a sick person …'

They left via the presbytery garden. A
little fence separated it from the road, where people leaving the chateau stayed in
groups a short distance away to talk about what had happened.

‘Do you think, Father, that it
might not be your place …'

But they bumped into the doctor, who was
muttering into his beard:

‘Listen, Father! Do you not think
that this is starting to turn into a fairground? … Perhaps someone should go down
there and restore some order, if only to calm the villagers down! … Oh! You're
here, inspector! … Well, you're making a fine mess of things … As we speak,
half the village is accusing the young count of … Especially since that woman got
here! … The estate manager is going to see the farmers to get together the forty
thousand francs which, it seems, are necessary for …'

‘Dammit!'

Maigret walked away. He was too upset.
And wasn't he being accused of being the cause of the chaos? What blunder had
he committed? What had he done? He would have given anything to see events play out
in a dignified atmosphere!

He strode towards the inn, which was half
full. He heard only the scrap of a sentence:

‘Apparently if they can't be
found he will go to prison …'

Marie Tatin was the very image of
distress. She was pacing back and forth, alert, trotting like an old woman even
though she wasn't more than forty.

‘Is the lemonade for you? … Who
ordered two beers? …'

In his corner, Jean Métayer was writing,
sometimes raising his head to listen in on the conversations.

Maigret walked over to him and
couldn't read his scribbles, but saw that the lines were clearly divided, with
only a few crossings-out, each one preceded by a number:

1 …

2 …

3 …

The secretary was preparing his defence
as he waited for his lawyer!

A woman a few metres away said,
‘There weren't even any clean sheets, and they had to go to the estate
manager's wife to ask for them …'

Pale, with drawn features but a
determined expression, Jean Métayer wrote:

4 …

Maigret slept the sleep, at once troubled
and sensual, that one only ever has in a cold country room that smells of stables,
winter apples and hay. Draughts circulated all around him. And his sheets were
frozen, except in the exact spot, the soft, intimate hollow that he had warmed with
his body. Consequently, rolled up in a ball, he avoided making the slightest
movement.

Several times he had heard the dry cough
of Jean Métayer in the neighbouring attic room. Then came the furtive footsteps of
Marie Tatin getting up.

He stayed in bed for another few
minutes. When he had lit the candle, he couldn't face washing with the icy
water from the jug and, deferring the task till later, went downstairs in his
slippers, without putting on a detachable collar.

Down below, Marie Tatin was pouring
paraffin on a fire that wouldn't light. Her hair was rolled up in hairpins,
and she blushed as she saw the inspector appear.

‘It isn't yet seven
o'clock … The coffee isn't ready …'