The Woman With the Bouquet (12 page)

According to Maître Plessier, the outlook for her trial was positive: the elements of the investigation were in their favor; all the witnesses, with the exception of the shepherd, would be for the defense, and would sit behind the defendant’s bench; and as the interrogations proceeded Gabrielle had shown herself to be more and more persuasive, from the police chief to the investigating magistrate.

Because Gabrielle knew perfectly how to tell a convincing lie: all it took was to tell the truth. This she had learned from her father, Paul Chapelier, for as a child she had accompanied him on his concert tours. When this talented conductor was not conducting the musicians himself, he attended other concerts, and because of his fame, he was duty bound to go backstage after the performance to compliment the artists. Mindful not to upset the colleagues with whom he had played or might play, he decided only ever to speak only of what he had appreciated; he tossed out any negative critique, and shared only his positive remarks; and if there was only one single pathetic detail worthy of praise, he would run with it, amplify it, enhance it. Thus, he never lied, except by omission. In his conversations, the performers felt that he was being sincere, and they were free to understand more; the pretentious ones picked up on his enthusiasm, while those who were merely lucid valued his courtesy. To his daughter Paul Chapelier said, more than once: “I don’t have enough memory to be a good liar.” By saying nothing but the truth and avoiding giving vent to anything at all hurtful, he managed not to contradict himself, and to establish friendships in a milieu that was nevertheless known to be extremely cutthroat.

Gabrielle adopted this method for the two and a half years of her incarceration. When she spoke of Gab, she only ever recalled the radiant period, the period of intense, shared love. His name was Gabriel, and hers was Gabrielle; together they became Gab and Gaby. The quirks of life and of birth certificates had given them a rare gift: once they were married, they were able to use the same name, give or take one syllable, Gabriel(le) de Sarlat. According to her, this shared identity expressed all their strength as a couple, the indestructibility of their union. To those civil servants who were paid to listen to her, Gabrielle described how she fell in love at first sight with this young man, whom she found shy although he was merely being well brought up; their long flirtation, their escapades, his embarrassed proposal to the artist father whom the boy admired, the ceremony at the Church of the Madeleine where an entire symphony orchestra played for them. Without being asked, she evoked the inviolate attraction of his neat, elegant body, never troubled by fat or middle-age spread, as if a slim shape were an aristocratic quality that came with the handle. She listed their moments of happiness as if saying an endless rosary—the children, the children’s marriages, the births of the grandchildren, and despite the passage of time, a man who remained physically intact, with his feelings intact, his gaze upon her unchanged, always bit tentative, respectful, and full of desire. From time to time, she realized that she was making her listeners feel ill at ease, that they were troubled by envy; one day, the examining magistrate went so far as to sigh, “What you are telling me, Madame, is too good to be true.”

She looked at him with compassion and murmured, “You must admit, rather, that it is too good for you, Monsieur.”

Embarrassed, he did not insist. All the more so as the couple’s close family—children, sons-in-law, daughter-in-law, friends, neighbors, all confirmed the idyllic nature of their love. To close the file, the culprit was twice made to sit a lie detector test, which she passed successfully.

Her detention brought with it a solitude that Gabrielle could only escape from in her memories. As a result, Gab had begun to occupy a more important, extravagant place in her new life as a prisoner: either she was talking about him, or she was thinking about him. It mattered little whether she was isolated or in company: he was there, no one else—kindly, comforting, and faithful.

The problem was that by virtue of hearing only things that were true, she ended up believing them. By hiding the last three years of her life with Gab, and revealing only twenty-seven years of bliss, Gabrielle understood less and less what had happened, what had changed her. She could hardly remember the “trigger,” the phrase that had alerted her . . . It was better not to even think about it, anyway, what good would it do! Gaby, because of that “trigger,” had proven capable of killing her husband; that woman, the murderess, must not exist until the acquittal; therefore, Gabrielle drowned her in a well of oblivion, severed herself from all the motives and reasons that had led her to bump him off; consequently, she condemned that entire part of her brain.

By virtue of thinking about him so much, she once again became the Gabrielle who was loving and loved, incapable of laying a hand on her husband. Like an actress who is obliged to spend time with her character, who ends up identifying herself with her and shows up unbelievably true to life on the set, Gabrielle showed up at her trial as the inconsolable heroine, the victim of a heinous accusation.

From the first day of the hearing, there was a consensus in her favor. On the second day, reporters were already talking about an unfounded accusation. On the third day, complete strangers in the last row of the overcrowded courtroom were weeping profusely, on the side of the unjustly treated innocent woman. On the fourth day, her children appeared over and over on the television news to express their emotion and indignation.

Gabrielle went through the interrogation and heard the witnesses, paying close attention; she was careful that nothing she said or that others said contradicted the version that she had constructed; she was like a scrupulous composer sitting in on the rehearsals of his work, with the score on his lap.

As anticipated, the shepherd turned out to be fairly catastrophic during his testimony. Not only was his French quite broken—and in this country, an error of syntax or vocabulary does not betray merely a lack of education, it constitutes an aggression against society as a whole, and is tantamount to blasphemy against the national cult of language—but he complained that he had to advance the money for his ticket to “go up to Compiègne,” and he grumbled for a good quarter of an hour about the subject. When interrogated by Maître Plissier, he committed the blunder of confessing that he recognized Gabrielle de Sarlat “from her photo in the newspapers,” then provided nothing but hateful explanations for his wishy-washy efforts to provide assistance to the body, saying, “For sure if you fall like that, there could’a been nothing left but shreds, no need to go and check, you think I’m stupid, or what?”

With the exception of the shepherd, everything corroborated Gabrielle’s innocence. On the last day but one, she relaxed a bit. As a result, when the family doctor came to the witness stand, she did not expect to be so devastatingly affected by what he said.

Dr. Pascal Racan, a loyal friend of the Sarlat couple, told several harmless anecdotes about Gab and Gaby, and among them, there was this:

“I’ve rarely seen such a loving couple. When one of them decided to do something, it wasn’t selfish, it was for the other one. For example, Gaby wanted to go on pleasing her husband, so she took up some sports, and she asked my advice in matters of diet. As for Gab, although he was thin and dry, he still had high blood pressure and he was worried, not about the disease, which could be kept in check with good medication, but about the effects of the treatment. As you know, beta-blockers decrease libido, and diminish sexual appetite. He often came to talk to me about it because he was afraid his wife might think he desired her less. Which was not true, he just didn’t feel like it as much. I’ve never seen a man so worried. I’ve never known someone so concerned about his companion. In such cases, most men just think about themselves and their health, and when they notice that their appetite is waning, it suits them, it decreases the number of adulterous relations they have; they’re delighted to become more virtuous for medical reasons without it costing them any effort. But Gab thought only about Gaby’s reaction.”

When she heard this hitherto unknown detail, Gabrielle was incapable of restraining a flood of tears. She swore she would be all right in a moment but was so upset that she wasn’t, and Maître Plissier had to ask for the hearing to be adjourned, to which the court agreed.

The members of the audience thought they understood why Gabrielle had been so moved. She did not confess anything to Maître Plissier but as soon as she was able to speak again, she voiced a request: “Please, I feel like I’m sinking, I can’t keep it up . . . Would you ask my eldest daughter to do me a favor?”

“Yes.”

“Have her bring this evening to the prison the four cookie tins that are on a coffee table in her father’s room. She will know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not sure that she will have the right to give them to you in the visiting room.”

“Oh, I beg you, I shall collapse.”

“There, there, only twenty-four hours to go. Tomorrow will be the last day, the speech for the defense. By evening we’ll be all set.”

“I don’t know what they will decide tomorrow, and neither do you, despite your confidence and your talent. Please, Maître, I can’t stand it anymore, I’ll do something foolish.”

“I don’t see how these cookie tins . . .”

“Please. I’m beside myself, I don’t know what I might do.”

He understood that she was sincere, threatening him, that she might make an attempt on her life. When he saw how overwrought she was, fearful that she might not make it to the end of the trial, the outcome of which already seemed glorious to him—a red letter day in his career—he dreaded a gaffe and swore that he himself would bring her the boxes she was asking for. Never mind, he would take the risk.

To his utter surprise, because he was not accustomed to such effusiveness from her, Gabrielle took him by the shoulders and kissed him.

The hearing resumed but Gabrielle did not listen; all she could think of was the doctor’s testimony, the secret boxes, the “trigger,” and everything she had kept silent for two and a half years.

When she was in the van taking her back to the prison, she stretched out her legs and thought.

She had listened to so many people talking about her, and about him, without knowing the facts, that her thoughts were all in a muddle.

Why had she killed him?

Because of the “trigger”. . . Was it a mistake?

At the prison, she asked for exceptional permission to go to the shower. Because of her exemplary behavior and the indulgent treatment the media were giving to her trial, permission was granted.

She slipped under the scorching water. To wash! To cleanse herself of the nonsense she may have said or heard these last days. To think back about what had happened, about the “trigger.”

The “trigger” had come from Paulette . . . When that tall, gangly woman with her mannish features first came and settled with her husband in Senlis, she often came to Gabrielle’s store to furnish and decorate her new house. Although initially Gabrielle found her vulgar in her appearance—Paulette was as colorful as a parrot in Brazil—and in the way she spoke, she enjoyed her as a customer because she appreciated her insolence, her utter disregard for what people might think, her sharp repartee, incongruous but spot on. Several times, she took her defense against her employees or the customers she frightened off. There was one thing she had to grant her new neighbor: she was very talented at sniffing out any tricky business. Wary and perspicacious at the same time, Paulette brought a number of things to Gabrielle’s attention: traffic in fake opalines, then a gang who were dismantling old fireplaces; above all, with a single glance she could detect all the vices and secrets of the other villagers, obscure examples of depravity that Gabrielle herself was unaware of or had taken years to discover. Dazzled by Paulette’s clairvoyance, Gabrielle enjoyed spending time with her, sitting on her armchairs that were for sale.

One day, as they were chatting, Gabrielle noticed Paulette’s dark gaze—erratic, sidelong—following the movements of an intruder. The object of her scrutiny was none other than Gab, whom Paulette had not met. Amused by the idea of what Paulette would have to say, Gaby did not explain that her beloved husband had just come tearing into the store.

Although their conversation continued seamlessly, Gabrielle was perfectly aware that Paulette was not missing a single thing as she followed Gab’s movements, demeanor and expressions.

“What do you think?” asked Gabrielle suddenly, with a wink over in Gab’s direction.

“That guy? Oh my God, the perfect two-faced bastard. Too polite to be honest. The hypocrite to end all hypocrites. First prize with a cherry on top.”

Gabrielle was so taken aback that her jaw dropped and her mouth stayed open until Gab rushed over to her, kissed her, and greeted Paulette.

As soon as she had realized her blunder, Paulette changed her attitude, and the next day she excused herself for her remark to Gabrielle, but it was too late: the worm was already in the apple.

From that moment on, day by day, Gaby’s perception of Gab began to change. If Paulette had made such an assertion, she must have her reasons: she was never wrong! Gaby observed Gab, trying to forget everything she knew about him, or thought she knew, as if he had become a stranger. Worse yet, she tried to justify Paulette’s judgment.

To her extreme surprise, it wasn’t difficult.

Gab de Sarlat was polite and courteous. He dressed in a casual gentleman farmer style, was always available to help, was a regular churchgoer, had little inclination to overindulge in conversation or ideas, could fascinate and exasperate in equal measure. He was traditional in his feelings, his discourse, and his behavior—and even his physique—and he attracted some people for the same reasons he repelled others, who were not numerous: he looked perfect, ideal.

Caught out by the instinct of the ferocious Paulette, he suddenly posed the same problem to Gabrielle as had two or three pieces of furniture in her life as an antique dealer: original, or imitation? Either you saw him as an honest man who cared about others, or you sniffed out the impostor.