Tatiana de Rosnay: A Secret Kept

The pain is setting in at last, like a familiar, dangerous friend you let in with apprehension. My chest feels constricted, too small to contain my lungs. I stop and take a couple of deep breaths. Angèle comes to stand behind me. Her warm body presses against mine. It gives me the strength to carry on.

“That Christmas is a dreadful one for Clarisse. Never has she felt lonelier. She misses June desperately. June has her busy, active life in New York, her gallery, her society, her friends, her artists. Clarisse has only her children. She has no friends apart from Gaspard, the son of her mother-in-law’s maid. Can she trust him? What can she tell him? He is only fifteen, barely older than her son, a nice, simpleminded young boy. What can he understand? Does he know two women can fall in love? That it doesn’t necessarily make them evil, immoral sinners? Her husband is dedicated to his work, his trials, his clients. Maybe she tries to tell him, maybe she drops clues, but he is too busy to hear. Too busy climbing the social ladder. Too busy paving his way to success. He plucked her out of nowhere, she was just a girl from Provence, so unsophisticated it made his parents reel. But she was beautiful. She was the loveliest, freshest, most charming girl he had ever met. She didn’t care about his fortune, the family name, the Reys, the Fromets, the real estate, the property, the establishment. She made him laugh. No one ever made François Rey laugh.”

Angèle’s arms snake their way around my neck, and her hot mouth kisses the back of my neck. I steady my shoulders. I am coming to the end of the story.

“Blanche receives the file from the detective in January 1974. It is all there. All of it. How many times the women met, where, when. Photographs and all. It repels her. It drives her mad. She nearly tells her husband. She nearly shoves it under his nose, she is so outraged, so disgusted, so appalled. But she doesn’t. June Ashby notices that they are being followed. She traces the detective back to the Rey residence. She calls Blanche to order her to mind her own fucking business, but Blanche never takes her calls. June gets the maid or the maid’s son. June tells Clarisse to be careful, she tries to warn her, to explain that it all needs to die down a bit, that they should lie low, that they should wait. But Clarisse can’t stand it. Clarisse can’t stand the idea of being followed. She knows Blanche is going to call her in, to show her the incriminating photos. She knows Blanche will force her to never see June again, that she will threaten to take the children away from her. And so one morning, one cold, sunny winter morning in February, Clarisse waits till her children are on their way to school, she waits till her husband has gone to his office, and she puts on her pretty red coat and walks from the avenue Kléber to the avenue Henri-Martin. It is a short walk, one she has often done with the children, with her husband, but not recently, not since Christmas, not since she knows that Blanche wants June out of her life. She walks quickly until she is breathless, until her heart pumps too hard, too fast, but she walks on, heedless, intent on getting there as soon as possible. She walks up the stairs and rings the bell with a trembling finger, and Gaspard, her friend, her only friend, opens up and smiles. She says she needs to see Madame right away. Madame is in the petit salon, finishing her breakfast. Odette asks if she wants some tea, some coffee. She says no, she won’t be a minute, she just has something to say to Madame and she’ll be gone. Is Monsieur there? No, Monsieur is not here today. Blanche is sitting down reading her mail. She is wearing her silk kimono and she has curlers in her hair. When she looks up at Clarisse, she does not look happy to see her. She orders Odette to close the door and to leave them. Then she gets up. Wielding a document under Clarisse’s nose, she snarls, ‘Do you know what this is, have you any idea?’ ‘Yes, I know,’ says Clarisse quietly. ‘These are photographs of June and me, you had us followed.’ Blanche feels an unprecedented gush of fury. Who does this peasant think she is? No upbringing. No breeding. From the gutter. Uncouth, slatternly, coarse little peasant. ‘Yes, I have photos of your disgusting affair. I have it all here, let me show it to you. See? It’s all here, when you see her, where you see her. And now this shall go straight to François so that he knows who his wife really is, so that he sees she is not fit to be the mother of his children.’ Clarisse replies, very calmly, that she is not afraid. Blanche can do just that, Blanche can show it to François, to Robert, to Solange. Blanche can show it to the entire world. ‘I love June and she loves me, and we want to spend the rest of our lives together with the children. This is exactly what should happen, no more hiding, no more lies. I will tell François myself. There will be a divorce. We will explain it to our children as gently as possible. François is my husband, and I should tell him myself because I respect him.’ Blanche’s venom swells, huge, bloated, out of proportion. ‘What do you know about respect? What do you know about family values? You are nothing but a slut. And I will not have you tarnishing our name with your revolting lesbian business. You will stop seeing that woman as of right now, and you will do exactly as you are told. You will maintain your rank-’ ”

I stop, my voice now a mere croak. My throat is parched. I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water with shaking hands. I drink it down in a gulp, the glass rattling against my front teeth. When I go back to Angèle, the most unexpected and uncomfortable image jumps to my eyes, like a slide being propped there against my will.

I see a woman kneeling on rail tracks at dusk, and I see the train zooming up to her at a very fast pace. The woman is wearing a red coat.

“Odette is standing just outside the closed door. She has been standing there since Madame ordered her to leave, her ear glued to the panel, although that isn’t necessary, as Madame is shouting so loudly. She has heard it all, the entire wrangle. She now hears Clarisse’s firm, ‘No. Goodbye, Blanche,’ and then there is a skirmish, the echo of a brief struggle, the sharp intake of breath, an exclamation, but whose voice is it, she can’t make out, and then a dull thud, something heavy falling to the floor. Madame’s voice saying, ‘Clarisse! Clarisse!’ and then, ‘Oh, my God.’ The door opens, Madame’s face is haggard, she seems petrified. She looks utterly silly with the rollers bobbing up and down on her head, and it takes her a couple of minutes to talk, to actually speak to Odette. ‘There’s been an accident. Call Dr. Dardel, fast. Hurry!’ What accident? thinks Odette as she rushes to get her son, orders him to call Dr. Dardel immediately, and comes running back to the petit salon on her squat legs, where Madame is waiting, prostrate on the couch. What accident? What happened? ‘There was an argument,’ moans Madame, her voice strangled. ‘She was going to leave, and I held her back. I hadn’t finished with what I was telling her, and I grabbed her sleeve, and she stupidly fell, she fell forward, and she banged her head on the table corner right there, look, where it is at its sharpest.’ And Odette looks and sees the sharp corner, the glass corner, and she sees how still Clarisse is lying on the carpet, no movement, no breathing, her face drained of all color, and she says, ‘Oh, Madame, she is dead.’ Then Dr. Dardel arrives, the reliable family doctor, the old, faithful friend. He examines Clarisse, and he says the same words, ‘She is dead.’ Blanche wrings her hands, she sobs, she tells the doctor it was all a frightful accident, such a stupid, monstrously stupid accident. He looks at Blanche as he signs the death certificate, pen poised, and he says, ‘There is only one thing to do. There is only one solution, Blanche. You must trust me. Let me do what I have to do.’ ”