the bait and swallowed it hook, line and sinker, both her story and her sorrow. Their group split in two: the women went with her down into the valley while the men went off to look for Gab.
At the hotel Bellevue, someone must have informed the personnel ahead of time by phone, because they were all waiting for her with the appropriate expression on their faces. A gendarme with a pale face informed her that a helicopter was already on its way with a rescue team to the scene of the accident.
At the words “rescue team,” she shivered. Did they expect to find him alive? Might Gab have survived his fall? She recalled his cries, and then how they stopped, and the silence, and she had a doubt.
“Do you . . . do you think he might be alive?”
“That is what we hope, Madame. Was he in good physical condition?”
“Excellent, but he fell over several hundred yards, bouncing on the rocks.”
“We have already encountered more astonishing cases. As long as we don’t know, it is our duty to remain optimistic, dear Madame.”
Impossible! Either she was crazy, or he was. Was he saying this because he had information, or was he mouthing some stereotyped formula? No doubt the latter . . . Gab could not possibly have survived. And even if, through some miracle, he had survived, he must be broken, traumatized, crippled with internal and external bleeding, incapable of speech! After all, if it wasn’t already the case, he would die in the hours that followed. Would he have time to mutter something to the stretcher bearers? Just before they winched him up into the helicopter? Would he denounce her? Unlikely. What had he understood? Nothing. No, no, no, a thousand times no.
She grasped her head between her hands and as she stifled her tears the witnesses thought she was praying; in reality, she was cursing the gendarme. Although she was sure she was right, that nincompoop had filled her with doubts. And now she was trembling with fear!
Suddenly a hand was laid on her shoulder. She jumped.
The head of the rescue team was staring at her looking like a scolded cocker spaniel.
“You must be brave, Madame.”
“How is he?” cried Gabrielle, torn with anxiety.
“He is dead, Madame.”
Gabrielle let out a cry. Ten people ran over to comfort her, console her. Shamelessly, she screamed and sobbed, determined to purge herself of her emotions: phew, he didn’t make it, he wouldn’t say anything, the resident fool had given her the willies for nothing.
All around, everyone was feeling sorry for her. What exquisite delight, to be a murderer yet be taken for the victim . . . She indulged in it until the evening meal which, naturally, she refused to eat.
At nine o’clock, the police came back to inform her that they had to question her. Although she acted surprised, she had been expecting it. Before carrying out her plan, she had rehearsed her testimony, which had to be persuasive regarding the premise of an accident, and refute any of the suspicion that typically might fall upon the spouse when a partner dies.
They took her to the pink stucco police station, where she gave her version of the events while gazing at a calendar with a picture of three adorable kittens.
Although the policemen apologized for burdening her with this or that question, she went on as if she could not for a second imagine being suspected of anything. She cajoled them, signed the statement, and went back to the hotel to spend a peaceful night.
The next morning, her son and two daughters arrived, accompanied by their spouses, and this time the situation was awkward. She felt genuine remorse when faced with her beloved children’s sorrow; it wasn’t regret over having killed Gab, but shame at inflicting this pain upon them. What a pity he had also been their father! How stupid of her not to have conceived them with another man, to spare them these tears for him . . . In any case, it was too late. She took refuge in a sort of vacant speechlessness.
The
At the hotel Bellevue, someone must have informed the personnel ahead of time by phone, because they were all waiting for her with the appropriate expression on their faces. A gendarme with a pale face informed her that a helicopter was already on its way with a rescue team to the scene of the accident.
At the words “rescue team,” she shivered. Did they expect to find him alive? Might Gab have survived his fall? She recalled his cries, and then how they stopped, and the silence, and she had a doubt.
“Do you . . . do you think he might be alive?”
“That is what we hope, Madame. Was he in good physical condition?”
“Excellent, but he fell over several hundred yards, bouncing on the rocks.”
“We have already encountered more astonishing cases. As long as we don’t know, it is our duty to remain optimistic, dear Madame.”
Impossible! Either she was crazy, or he was. Was he saying this because he had information, or was he mouthing some stereotyped formula? No doubt the latter . . . Gab could not possibly have survived. And even if, through some miracle, he had survived, he must be broken, traumatized, crippled with internal and external bleeding, incapable of speech! After all, if it wasn’t already the case, he would die in the hours that followed. Would he have time to mutter something to the stretcher bearers? Just before they winched him up into the helicopter? Would he denounce her? Unlikely. What had he understood? Nothing. No, no, no, a thousand times no.
She grasped her head between her hands and as she stifled her tears the witnesses thought she was praying; in reality, she was cursing the gendarme. Although she was sure she was right, that nincompoop had filled her with doubts. And now she was trembling with fear!
Suddenly a hand was laid on her shoulder. She jumped.
The head of the rescue team was staring at her looking like a scolded cocker spaniel.
“You must be brave, Madame.”
“How is he?” cried Gabrielle, torn with anxiety.
“He is dead, Madame.”
Gabrielle let out a cry. Ten people ran over to comfort her, console her. Shamelessly, she screamed and sobbed, determined to purge herself of her emotions: phew, he didn’t make it, he wouldn’t say anything, the resident fool had given her the willies for nothing.
All around, everyone was feeling sorry for her. What exquisite delight, to be a murderer yet be taken for the victim . . . She indulged in it until the evening meal which, naturally, she refused to eat.
At nine o’clock, the police came back to inform her that they had to question her. Although she acted surprised, she had been expecting it. Before carrying out her plan, she had rehearsed her testimony, which had to be persuasive regarding the premise of an accident, and refute any of the suspicion that typically might fall upon the spouse when a partner dies.
They took her to the pink stucco police station, where she gave her version of the events while gazing at a calendar with a picture of three adorable kittens.
Although the policemen apologized for burdening her with this or that question, she went on as if she could not for a second imagine being suspected of anything. She cajoled them, signed the statement, and went back to the hotel to spend a peaceful night.
The next morning, her son and two daughters arrived, accompanied by their spouses, and this time the situation was awkward. She felt genuine remorse when faced with her beloved children’s sorrow; it wasn’t regret over having killed Gab, but shame at inflicting this pain upon them. What a pity he had also been their father! How stupid of her not to have conceived them with another man, to spare them these tears for him . . . In any case, it was too late. She took refuge in a sort of vacant speechlessness.
The
Similar Books
