L'appel Du Vide [Call Of The Void]

[12]

Philippe felt his throat constrict when he heard Renaudin's words. Right when his doubts about Marie's involvement in the murder had been fading away, life had thrown a bucket of cold water on him.

He liked to think of himself as a fairly rational man, at least in terms of the conclusions he drew. As much as he knew the possibility of her involvement was high, he desperately wanted to believe that Marie was innocent. He thought that he had reason to believe that they were friends; and after having lost Maurice to politics and the Revolution, she was his only one.

It was just wishful thinking on his part, he supposed.

Lost in his speculations, Philippe had forgotten where he was, and it was the sound of the door creaking that brought him back to his senses. He quickly jumped up from under the window to some feet away, and assumed an air of casual surprise as Renaudin emerged from within.

"Ah, Armand! What a surprise to see you here," Philippe exclaimed, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't aware of the fact that you and Helene were close."

Renaudin's face twisted into a grimace as he replied."We aren't. What are you doing here, anyway?" The sharpness in his green eyes could not be missed.

"I'm buying some bread for Maman," he replied, smiling.

"I thought you left the job," Renaudin mused, seemingly puzzled. If Philippe hadn't known better, he might have actually fallen for his facade of ignorance.

"Oh, that was because I got a better one."

Renaudin forced a smile. His lips stretched  the ends of his cheeks grotesquely and revealed strangely pointed canines. The enquiry about where Philippe had gotten the job was left unsaid, but was apparent on his face.

Philippe supposed that he could say, for Marie had mentioned that he'd get the pretend-job the next day itself. "At the Carpentiers'," he lied. "I start tomorrow."

Throwing him a look that was in equal measure disbelieving and disgusted, Renaudin turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

*

Philippe Fitzgerald wiped the sweat of his forehead nervously, as he stood at the stairwell, practicing his Austrian accent, for his new documents stated that he was from the country.

He had met a few Austrian officials during his time in the army, and their French distinctly reminded him of the sound people made while they were sick. The harsh, rough words of the Austrian language sounded good enough by itself, but the accent did not mix well with the French tongue. The words came out with the unnatural stiffness of wood, even from the mouth of the officers fluent in the language.

"Dominik Bauer?" a voice sounded behind him. He turned and saw a short, concave man. He had blonde hair and hazel eyes, just as Marie had described to him.

She had told him that even her man in the household would be informed, like the Carpenters, that Philippe had immigrated from Austria only some months ago.

"Yes. You is Pascal Savatier?" Philippe asked, deliberately making a grammatical error and mispronouncing the name as he spoke. It came out as broken as expected. Though the man didn't comment on it, his contemptuous bearing said it all.

It was contempt that would run in French blood for generations henceforth. The Queen Marie Antoinette, who had reduced their already-crumbling economy into smithereens with her lavish spending was of the same descent.

"Come," Pascal told him as he walked past him down the corridor. "You will be working under me."

"As?"