Concerto to the Memory of an Angel (14 page)

That very evening, at a gala held at the Elysée Palace in honor of the Russian president, Catherine put on a long gown and walked along the solemn corridors to join Henri, who was gloomy, as if he were cross with her for not cheating on him. Now she was secretly delighted, and sat down compliantly to her umpteenth state dinner, a dinner as starchy as an apprentice maître d', a dinner without a single crushed flower, without a single colorful word or animated gesture or original idea, a dinner of wax dolls set among high ceilings and monumental tapestries.

Once the reception was over and they were on their way back up to their apartments, the moment they were alone in the staircase Henri ventured to say:

“How can you stand the fact that I have mistresses?”

“I am delighted that other women are fulfilling a task I no longer have the stomach for.”

He stopped and looked at her, closing his fist to stop himself from hitting her.

“Do you know that any other man would slap you for making such a remark?”

She shook her head, doubtful.

“That's as may be. But would I say it to another man?”

He stepped closer to her, threateningly.

“Why don't you leave me?”

“You'd be only too pleased.”

“And what about you, wouldn't you be pleased?”

“My revenge consists in staying with you.”

“And yet you would be free!”

“So would you. And then you would be capable, my dear Henri, of enjoying your freedom more than I would enjoy mine. So I prefer to deprive myself in order to deprive you. Through my sacrifice, I shall always be better than you.”

She was sincere. Her aggressive impulse would keep her faithful to him, just as she had been since the beginning of his presidential mandate. A saint. Impossible to find fault with her. Never had any woman applied herself so devotedly to not betraying her husband: and while in days gone by it had been out of respect, now it was in order to humiliate him.

He added, “You are perverse.”

“And that, my dear, is probably why we once fancied each other.”

They entered their apartments. Henri locked the door. They did not say another word until morning.

 

The next day the sun was shining on the lawns of the Elysée Palace like a miraculous promise.

Contrary to his usual habit, Henri insisted on having breakfast with his wife, and ordered two trays to be brought up, which he himself set out in the dining room. Forgetting the tension of the night before, he turned to her with an amiable manner: “Catherine, in a year and a half, new elections will be held. I'm going to seek a second term.”

“I thought as much.”

“What is your opinion?”

“You are not sure to be reelected.”

“I know that, and I'll fight.”

“How? You can't possibly use your assassination trick again, can you.”

He clenched his jaw. And grimaced: “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't.”

In silence, each of them became absorbed for a minute or more in the task at hand, that of covering buttered bread with jam without getting any on the table or on their fingers.

Then he continued, as if nothing had happened, “Before my second mandate, I suggest we get a separation.”

“Why?”

“What do you think . . . ”

“That would be taking a major political risk, my dear Henri.”

“A divorced president? Times have changed!”

“The surprise of it would be a serious blow. Ever since there have been newspapers, radio, and television, everybody has believed in our perfect love. ‘A Perfect Love Story,' that's our legend. If people were to find out it was not true, just a smokescreen, a load of rubbish, it would create mistrust among your supporters, and have an even worse impact on those who are undecided: has President Morel been lying to us? How much truth is there in what he tells us? Has he done such a good job, after all? Are his deeds and gestures not merely the product of his communications strategy?”

“I don't care. I've had enough.”

“Of me?”

“Of you! Of us!”

“And I suppose there is a new mistress who is dreaming of shoving me out?”

“Not even.”

“What then?”

“I cannot stand the way you look at me.”

She burst out laughing.

“That's for sure: I see you as you are. And it's very ugly.”

He grimaced, swallowed his saliva; then, placing his open palms down on the table to calm himself he concluded, “Would you consider my proposal?”

“I have considered it: I refuse.”

“Why?”

“I have found my way. What options remained after I discovered I no longer loved you? To hate you. It suits me.”

“Catherine, I can no longer stand to have you by my side.”

“Well, you are going to have to get used to it. Let me sum up the situation. First of all, you will not seek a second term unless I agree.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I would have to keep my mouth shut, keep my dirty secrets to myself, and not go blabbing about the attack on the rue Fourmillon.”

He made a movement with his body as if he had received a blow to the stomach. Certain that she had been heard, she continued, “Secondly, during this second term, I will be by your side. ‘A Perfect Love Story,' don't forget!”

He took a swallow of coffee; his gaze above the coffee cup was murderous.

“Why are you putting me through this hell?” he asked.

“So that you will pay for what you have done. For what you have made of me, of our daughter, of your principles, of our life, of your former chauffeur.”

“You're going stark raving mad, Catherine: you are not only my wife, you are divine justice.”

“Exactly!”

She spun on her heels and left the room.

 

The following week there was an incident to which, initially, she hardly paid any attention. On the way to spend a weekend at the Institute for the Deaf and Hearing Impaired where her daughter was staying, in Cognin in the Alps, the chauffeur stopped to check the brakes after they had gone a few miles because they were not working properly. Something which the mechanic at the garage later confirmed. Catherine praised Martin for having realized in time: the hairpin turns would have been fatal.

Then ten days later, on her way home from the Opéra de Compiègne, where she had gone to see
Le Domino noir,
a forgotten minor work from the nineteenth century, there was an accident.

At one o'clock in the morning, in the deserted streets of Paris, the limousine with Martin at the wheel was approaching the Pont de l'Alma by way of the underground expressway along the river when a white car with blinding headlamps came up behind them. Disturbing and irrational, the car was tailgating so close that Martin had to accelerate. Suddenly another vehicle heading the wrong way came at them in a furious zigzag, forcing Martin to swerve. A split second later the presidential limousine crashed against the column.

To a resonant
bang
and the crunching of metal, Martin cried out in pain and Catherine, sitting in the back, felt her knee tear apart.

The emergency services—firemen, ambulances—arrived quickly and the occupants were extricated from the vehicle, crushed but conscious.

On her way to the hospital, Catherine realized soon enough that she would pull through, as would her chauffeur. However, this hardly reassured her because now she had identified the true source of danger: Henri!

As the siren tore its way through the Paris night, Catherine realized the full horror of her situation: Henri had ordered to have her eliminated. Since he no longer wanted her by his side, either for his upcoming campaign or for what might become his second term, he no longer had any scruples.

As she was taken through the emergency entrance at La Pitié-Salpêtrière she gave a sigh, relieved to find herself in a public hospital and not a private clinic, where he could have taken her hostage and acted just as he liked.

The greatest trauma specialists examined her, gave her a shot, provided her with oxygen, took a blood sample, then informed her that they would operate on her leg without delay.

 

When Catherine came round, it was Henri's face that she saw leaning attentively over her.

He immediately smiled, took her hand, and caressed her temples. Groggy and terrified, she let him. He spoke to her, and she answered with a grunt; he used the opportunity to go off into a passionate monologue. During what seemed an endless time to her, he held forth like the ideal husband, in shock, affectionate, as if he had been afraid of losing her, as if in his eyes she still mattered, as if he still loved her. He confessed to her, shamelessly, that the fact of having her with him again in this state—so weak, having narrowly survived—enabled him to gauge how absurd these recent months of dark moods, petty squabbling and estrangement had been. As a pledge of sincerity, tears welled along his somewhat Asian eyelids. Mute, sheltering behind her pain, Catherine could not get over it: how could he lie to her in this way? Even she would not be capable of such a thing. Her assassin was making perfect use of all the expressions, thoughts, and feelings of a victim! What a performer . . . She let him finish his show because she had neither the strength nor the energy to react.

In the days that followed he continued his starring role as the adorable worried husband, whether they were alone or in the presence of witnesses who could only look on tenderly. However, as soon as she felt she had her nerves under control, she took the opportunity of a moment alone with him to ask, “Just how far are you prepared to go?”

“What do you mean, my darling?”

“Just how far would you go for the sake of power?”

“What are you talking about?”

“As far as killing your wife?”

“You had an accident.”

“Two in the same week. It's strange, no? First the brakes gave way. Then a trap.”

“You're jumping to conclusions. The investigation is under way, they will get to the bottom of it. When we find that reckless driver, we will drag him before the courts.”

“You won't find him.”

“And why not?”

“Because you can never track secret agents down. Or, if you can, their files are protected by state secret.”

“I don't understand.”

“Two accidents one right after the other putting your wife in mortal danger . . . You will say it was a coincidence, or the law of series, I suppose? Besides, the only question I have is regarding your intentions. Did you want me to die? If so, your Secret Service is worthless. Or did you just want to frighten me? If that is the case, they obey you well. Successful intimidation or failed assassination?”

“My poor dear, you are in a state of shock.”

“That's it, you'll finish me off with a team of psychiatrists to claim that I'm off my rocker. My leg in a cast and the rest of me in a chemical straitjacket, will that be my minimum sentence?”

“Catherine, I thought that this horrible episode of suspicion and hatred that we have been going through was behind us.”

“Who stands to gain from this crime? You do.”

“There was no crime.”

“A likely story!”

“Listen, Catherine, no matter how I dream and hope and try, harder than ever, we cannot get along. As soon as you are out of the hospital, we should take a good look at our problems and talk about them and find a solution.”

“Divorce? Never! Never, you hear me, never! You will not extort a divorce from me.”

As she had been shouting, he stood up in a panic, afraid that his secretary out in the corridor might have heard her say “divorce.” Then he looked at her, with a gaze that combined fear and compassion, and said, “I'll come again tomorrow, Catherine, please put aside these foul suspicions and pull yourself together.”

He left her abruptly.

Alone again, Catherine succumbed to panic. How could she get away from him? Here in the hospital she had nothing to fear, but the moment she got out, she would be exposed to new dangers, the target of the very secret services who obeyed the orders of her all too powerful husband.

As fear is a good incentive, she found a way. She immediately asked to see as many friends and acquaintances as possible during the three days remaining to her in the hospital. Her telephone calls bore fruit: forty or more people came to see her. Every time he visited, Henri found her surrounded by company. He thought she had had a change of heart and he was glad.

Finally, the night before her departure, at twilight, the president was able to have a quiet moment alone with her.

Catherine gave him a big smile.

“I'll be glad to get home, Henri, yes I'll be very glad.”

“Well then, so much the better,” he said, with obvious relief.

“Up to now I was afraid to leave the hospital because I knew it meant I would be in the hands of people who want to harm me. Now I am reassured.”

“You seem to have left your paranoid delirium behind, I'm delighted. I was worried.”

She saw that he seemed sincere. What a fabulous actor he was, too . . .

“Yes, I shall return to the Elysée without fear. You, on the other hand, will be afraid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Afraid that something might happen to me.”

“Naturally, I'm afraid something might happen to you, I've always been afraid something might happen to you, there's nothing new under the sun.”

“No, you will be more afraid than before. Because these last few days I made use of my visits in order to take some precautions. As of tomorrow, if I am hurt, there will be a letter. A letter that for now is kept in a safe place, outside the country, far away from your spies and your armed henchmen. A letter where I tell the story of the attack on the Rue Fourmillon—or what I know about it, which means, a great deal—and the various accidents that have just occurred, with my own little theories regarding who was behind them. If anything were to happen to me, the moment my letter is revealed to the press you can be sure there will be a thorough investigation this time, a real one, an investigation that you will have no control over.”