Chapter 31
Thirty-one
Isabelle and Carlos found the street and apartment building where Cazenave lived easily enough, but there they struck a hitch.
As with all Paris apartment buildings, at street level there was an entry pad on which a code had to be entered to unlock the door.
But as they hesitated outside, somebody came out of the building and held the door open for them.
Once inside, there was an inner glass door, and on the wall was another pad with a buzzer for each apartment, with the name of the occupier beside it. And there it was: Cazenave, P.
Of course he could refuse to admit them. Or pretend he’d not heard the buzzer. Or maybe he was out. Or not even back in Paris yet. Or any number of things. But Isabelle pressed the buzzer anyway.
‘Yes?’ a voice—Cazenave’s voice—said, uncertainly.
‘It’s Isabelle Bernard. We need to talk,’ she said, as firmly as she could manage.
There was a silence which went on for several seconds, and just when Isabelle thought he would not answer, the glass door before them buzzed. She looked at Carlos, who nodded, and they pushed open the door and headed up the stairs to the first floor.
She didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps in her mind’s eye, she’d hoped to see a beaten, anxious man, dishevelled, red-eyed and unshaven, afraid of repercussions, but when Cazenave opened his apartment door, his gaze taking in the fact she wasn’t alone, she saw that he looked much as he had when she’d seen him last outside the auction house in Toulouse: dapper and well groomed, apparently in command of himself.
And that made her bristle, though she kept her voice calm as she asked, ‘Can we come in?’
He didn’t answer, but stood aside to let them in, motioning for them to go through. It was then that she noticed his hands were visibly shaking, and the prickles of anger subsided. Once in the living room, he didn’t sit down or look at them, but asked, ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No,’ said Isabelle. Her voice sounded hard, even to herself. ‘This is not a social call. You know what we’ve come for.’
His gaze flicked over her, his expression unreadable. ‘You have it already,’ he said, waving a hand towards the envelope she was holding.
She was about to react angrily when she had a sudden image of being in this apartment, she and Cazenave poring over the papers, the excitement of it as they searched for the identity of Mademoiselle Houssaye.
But now, he had no idea about what had happened since then, he knew nothing of what they’d discovered, and he wouldn’t know until it became public knowledge.
She was in control here, not him. And she needed to tie up this loose end, to know the reason for his actions.
‘Why, Pierre? Don’t say that it was a moment of madness.
I don’t believe that. It was more than that—much more.
’ She saw Carlos looking at her with a be-careful expression in his eyes, but she was sure of herself now, the last of her anger leaving her.
‘You of all people,’ she went on, ‘a respected scholar, a passionate seeker of truth—how could you do it when you knew what a betrayal it was, not just of me and Romy, but of your own life’s work? ’
‘Ha,’ said Cazenave, ‘my life’s work.’ He spat the words out as if they had a bitter taste. ‘What does that amount to, in the eyes of the world?’
Isabelle looked directly at him. ‘It’s not the eyes of the world that count, though, is it, Professor Cazenave?’
He gave an unamused laugh. ‘Really, is that what you think? The eyes of the world count for a great deal in my profession, if not perhaps in yours, Madame.’ There was a note of faint scorn in his voice that put her back up, but before she could answer, Carlos spoke for the first time.
‘Come on, Monsieur. Just give a straight answer. That is all we ask of you. Then we will leave you alone.’
Cazenave’s gaze washed over Carlos. ‘So, you are here as her guardian angel in case I have another moment of madness?’
‘If you like to think so, yes,’ said Carlos imperturbably, shooting Isabelle a glance that warmed her all over. ‘Are you likely to have another moment of madness, Monsieur?’
Cazenave looked at him again, then away.
He shook his head, suddenly looking weary.
‘I—the morning I found the letter had been left here, I had just got an email from the school. I had not got the permanent position I applied for months ago. The part-time work—it’s not enough, it never has been.
I’m in debt to the bank and I was counting on getting the permanent position to get back on an even keel …
I’d been sure I’d get it.’ His voice rose.
‘For God’s sake, I’m more qualified than most of the drones in that place.
My work is much more original than theirs, and yet it’s they who are promoted and published and praised and I—I have to beg for crumbs.
So, the letter—well, the temptation was too strong.
Especially,’ he added, with a spiteful curl of the lip, ‘as you hadn’t even noticed you had left it here.
Clearly, it wasn’t that precious to you. ’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Isabelle, fiercely.
‘You are not going to put the blame on me. Yes, I left the letter by mistake, but I trusted you. You’re a scholar; you’d spent years with the story of Elisabeth Fontaine.
You even wrote the text on her for that exhibition at Palais Galliera.
’ He made a dismissive gesture, as if to say that didn’t matter.
‘So why would I imagine you’d do anything as underhanded as what you did?
I thought you were invested in the truth.
I thought you were genuinely interested. ’
His eyelids flickered. ‘Oh, I was. I am. However, you called me respected just now, but let me tell you, respect doesn’t butter any bread.’
The butter and the money for the butter, Isabelle thought, bleakly.
She’d been right all along. It had been as simple and sordid as that.
He was a shell of a man, unable to see the blessings he did have, because of the corrosive resentment in which he had been marinating, perhaps for years.
An unexpected wave of pity came over her then, and with it a sense of finality.
There was little more to be gained here.
But she had one thing left to say. ‘Thank you for giving back the letter,’ she said, noting his disbelieving expression at her unexpected words. ‘We will leave it at that.’
‘But the school … you will …’ he stammered, sounding truly rattled for the first time.
‘I was going to go there on Monday morning,’ she said.
‘But not now—not unless you publish anything about the letter or claim it as your discovery or spread any rumours about it, or me, or any of my friends.’ She took out her phone.
‘I want you to confirm all that for the record, and to say that the first you knew of the letter was the day I showed it to you at the café.’
He stared at her. ‘There’s no need for that. I give you my word.’
It was her turn to give an unamused laugh. ‘Your word? For some reason—I can’t think why—I don’t trust that. Now, will you do as I ask, or do I need to call the school?’
Cazenave looked at her, at Carlos, at their calm, unyielding faces, then nodded in defeat and meekly recorded the message she dictated to him. When it was finished, Isabelle turned to Carlos. ‘I think our business is done here, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Carlos said. ‘I think it is.’
Without another word to Cazenave, they exited his apartment, leaving him with a stricken look on his face, as if he’d only just realised the magnitude of what he’d lost. It was only when they were back out on the street that Isabelle spoke.
‘I hope that’s the last we ever hear of him,’ she said, only now realising that she was shaking.
‘Thank you for being there for me, dear Carlos. I couldn’t have done it without you. ’
‘Oh, I think you could have, but I am glad I was there with you, for my God, you were absolutely magnificent, Isa,’ Carlos said tenderly, as he took her in his arms.