The bears in the bear pit were not friendly. Captured in 1934 perhaps, and now unaccustomed to the cold but intuitively rejoicing in the blizzard, they had heard him climbing the fence to he had known not what, and when he had slid and rocketed down into the pit they called home, they had come to find him.
But now they sniffed the air. Now they stood on their hind legs and even he smelled the smoke.
Polar bears, ah Gott im Himmel!
Cautiously Kohler pulled himself up to a sitting position. The female-was it the female? — moved away to climb out of the pit and up to the fence. The male still sniffed the air. Then he, too, romped up to the fence.
Driven by the wind, the flames soon filled the snowy air with soot and sparks and glowing bits of debris. Now he saw the fence and the bears, now he didn’t. He climbed. He dragged himself up the opposite wall of the pit. There was sheet ice under the snow. He slipped, he went right back down again, all the way.
One of the bears had turned to keep an eye on him, but the pit was large. There was ice beneath the snow on the pond at its bottom. There was a den, a roof over its entrance. That den would lead to a cage door that would be padlocked.
Half-way up the slope, he heard a rush of flame, felt the blast of it and scrambled up to the fence, but the damned thing was too high. There was barbed wire at the top, three strands. He’d been able to cross the wire going in but now … now as he climbed, the top of the fence protruded above him towards the pit. He dangled in space. He pulled himself along, hand over hand, the mittens catching on the barbs, reminding him of the Great War, the war …
When he came to a post, he pulled himself up, bounced uneasily, his boots on the strands, and then was over.
One of his mittens remained behind.
He ran. He tried to reach the farm. He ducked sparks and cried out, ‘Louis … Louis …’
The nun was on the roof, the child was nowhere to be seen and neither was Louis.
‘Burn … let her burn. She did it. I know she did!’
Hot … it was so hot. Torn by the wind, flames poured from under the eaves at both ends of the barn. The mare tried to free herself. Her screams were mingled with the constant bawling of the cattle and goats. Why had he not taken the time to see to them?
Aching all over, St-Cyr knelt in the driving snow behind the barn, still clutching the child he had caught and dragged down.
‘She did it. She really did.’
‘Sister,’ he cried out. ‘Sister, run down the tiles and jump. It is the only way.’
Her back was to them. Caught in the blizzard, perched standing astride the crown of the roof well above and to one side of the dormer window she had crawled out of, Céline clutched something in the crook of each arm. The heavy black woollen cloak blew about, revealing black skirts and black leather boots.
One after the other, she released the chickens she held and they saw the things fly panic-stricken to be singed, torched and taken by the wind.
‘Sister, don’t make me do this.’
‘You can’t go up there,’ swore Nénette.
‘I must. Don’t argue. Behave yourself.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You had better. The Petite Roquette, the prison for women, it is not very nice and is at present terribly crowded.’
‘You’re cruel.’
‘One has to be.’
‘There are some barrels. If we put them on the wagon, you can climb up there.’
‘Thanks.’
The tiles were cracking with the heat. They popped. They shattered. Smoke seeped from under them. The snow melted instantly. The roof sloped up and up, and what the hell was he doing this for?
Caught in the chimney funnels of the loft’s dormers, flames roared out at him only to be taken by the wind, torn upwards and then pushed away. Sparks, glowing bits of rubbish and dense smoke filled the air. His eyes watered. His nostrils burned. Swallowing tightly, he clung to the tiles and cried out, ‘Sister, give me your hand.’
She must have heard him, for she turned, and when he reached her, Céline said bitterly, ‘You fool. Why have you come? I wanted those girls to die.’
‘We can discuss it later.’
She backed away, held out her hands to fend him off. Tears streamed from her. That defiance, that fierceness of prominent cheekbones and wide-set dark eyes said, Ah, no, monsieur. No! I am finished.
‘Please, Sister. Later, yes?’
‘I did it! I fed them first and then I took them to the stairwells. Dirty … they all have dirty little minds. Filthy, do you understand?’
He would have to distract her. He would have to rush her, grab her and fall. Together they would roll down the roof. Bones would be broken …
He saw the knitting needle gripped fiercely in her right hand. It had been hidden in the sleeve of her cloak.
‘Now do you believe me?’ A tile popped near her left foot. ‘I could not kill my girls, but I could kill others, those we fed.’
‘You did not feed them all.’
‘I hunted others. That little bitch I killed in les Halles had eaten at the soup kitchen of the Germans. Her underwear was dirty. When I turned her over on to her stomach, she screamed and tried to get away, but I gave her what she so desired. I made her feel the shame of it!’
Ah no …
‘The one in the Notre-Dame had lost a part of an ear-ring and was in tears. I helped her look for it and I killed her in a corner of the south belfry.’
She waited. He did not say a thing, this detective who had risked his life to come after her. ‘I opened her blouse. I tried to feed things to her, things she would not let me stuff into her mouth. Things that sister of mine had crammed into my pockets. Filthy things. Rubber things. I squeezed and turned their contents out. Out! do you understand? Then … then I wiped my hands on her seat, her mons, her breasts and face and I … I left her.’
Dear Jesus, save him. The needle was gripped like a stiletto of the streets and all around them the tiles were popping and sloughing, but he could not hear them sliding down the roof and wondered at this. The noise was too great. It was far too hot … too hot. Light danced over her face, sharpening the hatred in her eyes. Shadows … there were shadows.
He wet his lips in fear. He really did not know what to do.
‘Louis … Louis, catch hold of the ladder.’
‘Hermann … Hermann … Sister, please, if you love God, drop that thing and come with me!’
She lunged. He leapt back, slipped, went down hard on to his knees, looked up in pain and defeat, tried to see her through his tears. Smoke was billowing. Glowing bits of ash were funnelling between them. He ducked. He tried to shield himself, but the wind was blowing too hard, the snow was blinding. Meltwater and sweat stung his eyes and clung to his face.
Out of the blizzard she came at him. He grabbed the hand that held the knitting needle. He tried to stop it but seemed to have no strength. Ah, nom de Jésus-Christ! her wrist … he must grab her by the wrist and bend it back … back.
There was a snap, a shriek as the needle fell. Then he heard her voice, heard the strangeness of it as she cried out in anguish, ‘Please, God, forgive my Violette!’
Kohler caught her by an ankle. For a moment he had a glimpse of her hatred, haunted by tragedy, gaunt and raw, streetwise and ever-watchful. Then she bent down, took him by the hair and put her lips close to his ear. ‘Violette is innocent. Please allow her to go to Provence, to her little farm, but not with her priest. Never with that one.’
Ah merde … ‘Louis …’ he managed. ‘L … o … u … i … s!