Speak Softly My Love (9 page)

Chapter Nine

He could
hear her talking to the cat in there as he fiddled with the key.
The lock was getting old and worn and he really should have that
looked at.

Madame
Lefebvre had been back for a couple of days and yet events had
ensured that they kept missing each other. Gilles had been leaving
at some ungodly hour in the mornings and she came in for days only.
Her day began at eight-thirty and ended at six.

They’d
missed each other in the evenings as well.

The
smell coming from the oven as he stepped out of the hallway and
into the kitchen was something else.

“
Hello, Madame Lefebvre.”

“
Hello.” Her bright and bristling countenance turned to greet
her employer.

He could
never quite figure her out, but he thought she might still be in
her late forties. A study in domestic efficiency, and he was
grateful to have her.

Thump.

A lumpy,
fur-covered body had dropped off a chair and that was the sound of
four paws hitting the floor under the table.

“
Ah. There it is.”

Madame
Lefebvre smiled indulgently, as she puttered by the sink and the
counter.

Sylvestre came over and tried to trip him up in the usual
fashion. Gilles gave a gentle nudge with the foot but it never did
any good. Not with that one. The damned thing kept coming back for
more.

“
Hello, hello.” He’d always stopped short of using her first
name, although he’d come awfully close sometimes.

This was
one of those times, for whatever sentimental reason. A solitary
man, the fact was that Gilles lived alone and a good housekeeper
did a lot to make that bearable. He was only going to get so
attached to her.

“
What’s for dinner?” Gilles was famished.

He’d had
lunch at the usual time when court recessed.

Man did
not live on sandwiches and milk alone.

“
Ah.” Beaming at her hapless charge, she launched into a full
and unabbreviated explanation.

Whatever
it was, it sounded good.

Pulling
a chair back, he sat at the table. Sylvestre clambered up into his
lap.

“
Ugh. Such a big heavy thing—”

He
watched her move around the kitchen getting his plate ready for
him. Her purse hung in its usual spot, and her coat and hat were on
a rack by the door. She habitually wore slippers around the place,
her own staid and sensible shoes placed just exactly so, on a
rubber mat by the door. Fifteen or twenty minutes and she would be
gone for the day. It was enough to half-listen and be appreciative.
It was warm and dry and at least he had a roof over his
head.

The mail
and the newspapers would be in a stack by his armchair. It was a
well-ordered existence in a precarious world. Some cynic had
described the body as the temple in which the god Stomach was
worshipped. Gilles would like to hope that he wasn’t quite that
bad, but work was demanding. Life was exhausting and there was
little doubt that he would have let himself go without some
moderating influences of the feminine variety.

Madame
Lefebvre fulfilled a number of important functions, and she did a
wonderful job of doing so. As for the expense, he could eat
exclusively in restaurants. He did not really need a cat to
survive. A simple maid service might have been a little cheaper.
This obviously went deeper than that, and yet originally she had
been a total stranger.

Home at
last. It was strange to think that Gilles Maintenon was the centre
of the cat’s little world, and that for him, there was essentially
nothing else but this and the job.

It was
the job that was important—not the man.

The
animal was purring contentedly and of course the claws came out and
began to knead his thigh.

“
Argh. When I find myself thinking of you, in the middle of
the day, that will be the time to hang it up.” The cat looked up
with love in his eyes and Gilles felt a moment of guilt.

Madame
chuckled softly, doing the pots and the pans and putting them in
the rack to dry.

He
scratched the wretched thing behind the ears, as if to make up for
lost time.

Maintenon supposed he really did love the thing. He probably
needed to—to love something.

We all got to have
something,
as the Yanks would say.

If that
thought didn’t humble a person, nothing would.

***

Madame
Lefebvre had taken off.

After
wrapping his belly around a second helping of pork Provençale with
leeks and olives, garlic mashed potatoes, crusty bread thickly
spread with somebody’s home-made butter…cheese, a bottle of wine
and you my love. His time was now his own.

Speak softly my love, for the heart can never lie.

Speak softly to me, and lover, please don’t cry.

Speak softly my love, speak softly—

Speak softly, my love…for our love shall never
die.

The
ghost that was Ann hovered in the back of his consciousness. The
house was dead quiet. Madame Lefebvre had departed for her own home
and what Gilles sort of assumed was a much brighter existence. She
had her own brood of adult children and consequently grandchildren,
nieces, nephews. They were all good Catholics. She had two sisters
living in town here and more in the place of her birth, Limoges.
She seemed like a happy person, and that was all he
knew.

It was
an assumption. After all, he might have been wrong about
it.

The
chair squeaked under him. He really ought to get a new one
someday.

The cat
was heavy in his lap and he lifted it off. There was nothing much
in the mail, the usual bills and one or two political and religious
tracts. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He got
up with a grunt. Making old man noises when he was alone was
permitted whereas he would never do it at work.

He was
in the mood for Vivaldi. The gramophone would comfort him, provide
background noise, and cognac would anesthetize him. A good book,
some peace and quiet and a good night’s sleep. He would sit, and
think, and smoke. He would have a nice, hot bath…

He’d be
a new man in the morning.

A
neighbour, barely an acquaintance, had accosted Gilles in the
street once. He was like a long-lost friend. He’d dropped a number
of vague hints, suggesting that Madame Lefebvre was an attractive
woman. He’d suggested that Gilles was no spring chicken and that he
had needs. He’d practically suggested that Gilles could do worse.
It was none of their damn-fool business, and yet he didn’t take it
too personally. It was as much a fishing expedition as anything.
He’d seen a few of those in his time. It was a technique he used
himself from time to time. He’d just chuckled, and put him off with
a joke, one that wasn’t too grotesque. Gilles had wondered for a
time, if someone had put him up to it. If so, it would certainly
never be Madame Lefebvre herself. She really wasn’t that kind of
person. After a while, he’d put it out of his mind.

The
thought returned from time to time, not that he was particularly
lonely at that exact moment, but.

But.

He had
actually considered the thought. He’d even wondered how he would
feel if she rejected him. He’d wondered how one would go about
courting such a woman. If he had never employed her as a
housekeeper, they would never have met. In that sense it was an
unnatural match, and what did that say about the human condition?
They were, after all, a man and a woman. They also lived in two
different worlds. Then there was the whole question of what other
people would think, what other people would say. That was the most
tiresome part of all, for surely it was none of their
business.

The trouble was, as far as he could make out, that there was
nothing sexual there—and for him, even at his age, that was still
important somehow. It was a kind of romanticism. He wanted to fall
in love again or something completely mad like that. If he was
going to go to all the trouble of having a marriage, well. He would
sure as
hell,
like to have sex again before he died. Maybe even just once,
so why get married at all? Not that he had ever taken any
logical
steps.
Otherwise it just didn’t seem worth it. As he recalled all
too clearly, it was work. That was what a marriage was, even the
most happy and successful ones. It required effort, and it needed a
good match.

He needed something or wanted something, or
yearned
for something
that was never going to come this way again.

Gilles
Maintenon would have killed to fall in love again. A faded smile
crossed his face at the idea.

To fall
in love again is to be young again. To count the cost was to die a
little bit inside. Just like in the song…

That`s
how he saw it. It would never happen now, of course.

One way
or another, it all came down to motivation. He had too many qualms,
too many misgivings to overcome. It was like he never left the
house any more.

Once
home, he generally stayed home. He hadn’t even walked—not since
that night.

The trouble was that in real life, things like
love
never seemed to
happen anymore.

There
would be no staid and comfortable marriage of convenience for
Gilles Maintenon. This sort of implied that he would be alone from
now on—it was difficult to see it otherwise.

While
Madame Lefebvre was a wonderful woman, and a lady in every sense of
the word, even in its most basic, schoolboy-chivalric way, (i.e.
she wore a dress and thought womanly thoughts, she being brittle,
and fragile, also a member of an alien species), she just didn’t
turn his crank as the Yanks would say.

One day he’d called his solicitor. He made a new will,
leaving every one of his relations very small legacies. The rest
went to feed hungry children in China. On some level, there must
have been some element of self-regard. But for the most part, he
just didn`t give a shit anymore. His estate wouldn`t be enough to
make even
one
of
the family rich, and so why do it?

Why
bother?

That
pretty much said it all.

Chapter Ten

They had
an appointment. They’d finally gotten through to her. So far
Monique was fully cooperative.

“
We’re just trying to get a handle on where he might have
gone.” Hubert, as usual, was solicitous, gentle and considerate.
“How much time did he spend at home, anyways?”

“
Oh, ah. Hmn.” The rapidity of it startled her.

That
much was clear as she hemmed and hawed, leading them into the salon
and making sure they were comfortably seated.

“
Didier spent a considerable time on the road, of course.” Her
eyes were calmer when she looked at him again.

Hubert
had given her something to chew on.

Tailler
wondered how he was going to like his role. There was nothing for
it and they must get on.

“
Okay. Before he left, how long had he been in
town?”

“
Ah—three or four days.”

“
How long had Didier been away?” It was pressure, gentle at
first but Tailler was relentless. “Just before that?”

“
He was gone for four days—five nights, kind of.”

He
nodded. That was easily understood, he’d taken the night train
coming and going.

“
Where did he go, exactly? Did he tell you?”

“
Mâcon. It’s in the Beaujolais country.” She mentioned the
name of a hotel, and he jotted that down,
Hôtel du Nord.

“
Okay, so the time before that—how long was he home for? And
would you be able to sort of write all this down for us? Would you
mind doing that for us?” Tailler cleared his throat. “Can you give
us his itinerary, as far as you know it, for the last month or
so?”

Her hand
went up to her mouth and then came down.

“
I suppose so. Of course. A few places, maybe.”

“
Did you ever drive him to the train station?”

“
No. We don’t have a car. He calls a taxi.”

“
The same one every time?”

“
I think so.” She supplied the name of a firm and Tailler
wrote it down.

He would
check a phone book for that.

“
Did he take a taxi that night? The last time you saw
him.”

Fresh
tears glistened in her eyes.

“
I—I think so.”

“
Are you sure?”

She
looked at him.

“
Yes—Didier wasn’t the sort to take the bus.”

“
Very well, Madame.” His pen made motions on the
page.