23. Camille #2
Henri stops mere inches away from me, his cane resting on the floor between us.
Looking down at me, he says, “J’ai suivi votre carrière, vous savez.
Vous êtes loin d’avoir atteint mon niveau, bien s?r, mais votre parcours n’a rien de méprisable.
Votre mère serait très fière de vous.” I have followed your career, you know.
Not nearly as accomplished as I, but nothing to scoff at either. Your mother would be very proud.
The words hit exactly where he intended.
I snarl, “Ne vous permettez pas de parler en son nom.” Don’t you dare presume to speak for her.
Henri studies me, genuine curiosity in his expression, as if I am a result he has been waiting years to observe. “Vous avez ses yeux.” You have her eyes.
I laugh once, without humor. “Ma mère avait les yeux bruns.” My mother had brown eyes.
His head tilts. “Pas la couleur. Cette facon de regarder les autres comme s’ils vous étaient inférieurs.
” Not the color. The way you look at people like they are below you.
Henri glances toward the men around us, then back to me.
“J’aimerais maintenant récupérer ce qui m’est d?.
Les dossiers, je vous prie.” I would like what I am owed now. The files, please.
One of the armed men looks uncomfortable. “Il a dit qu’ils avaient été envoyés ailleurs.” He said they’ve been sent somewhere else.
Henri does not. “Je m’étais douté que cela pouvait arriver. Je veux les originaux.” I assumed that might be the case. I want the originals.
I frown, not expecting such a casual response. “Vous avez été démasqué. Vous avez perdu. ?a ne vous fait rien ?” You’ve been exposed. You’ve lost. Doesn’t that bother you?
Henri looks toward the dark windows, his lips tilted up in amusement.
“Il est intéressant que vous croyiez qu’il ne s’agit encore que de documents.
Quelques preuves dérisoires ne m’importent guère.
” It’s interesting that you think this is still only about documents.
Some silly evidence means very little to me.
For a moment, I simply stare at him.
I have imagined Henri frightened.
I have imagined him furious, cornered, watching decades of careful concealment collapse around him while journalists, prosecutors, researchers, and every institution he manipulated finally turned their attention toward what he had done.
I imagined satisfaction in that.
Not because I believed evidence would resurrect my mother or erase what happened to my father, but because I thought there would be some justice in forcing Henri to understand that the thing he valued most—control—had finally been taken from him.
Instead, he looks amused.
Not falsely calm.
Not performing indifference while panic works beneath the surface.
Amused.
The realization knocks something inside me sideways.
The copies matter. They have to. The records could destroy what remains of his reputation, reopen investigations, expose financial networks, implicate people who worked with him and perhaps even identify crimes we have not yet discovered.
Yet Henri stands in my darkened sitting room as though I have told him someone has scratched his car.
“Vous ne vous en souciez vraiment pas,” I murmur. You truly don’t care.
Henri’s eyes return to me. “Pas comme vous l’espériez, non.” Not the way you hoped I would, no.
“Alors pourquoi les vouloir ?” I ask. “Pourquoi risquer tout ceci pour des originaux qui, selon vous, ne valent rien ?” Then why do you want them? Why risk all of this for originals that, according to you, are worthless?
Henri rests both hands over the curved head of his cane. “Parce qu’ils appartenaient à Alberte.” Because they belonged to Alberte.
The answer is so simple that I assume I have misunderstood him.
My brow tightens. “Pardon ?”
Henri’s smile grows faintly. “Les dossiers. Le journal. Les photographies. Tout ce qu’il a pris lorsqu’il m’a quitté.
” His thumb moves idly over the polished wood.
“C’était à Alberte.” The files. The journal.
The photographs. Everything he took when he left me.
It belonged to Alberte. He pauses. “Et Alberte était à moi.” And Alberte belonged to me.
Cold slips beneath my skin.
Henri says it without embarrassment—without metaphor.
Not he was mine in the careless way lovers sometimes speak of one another, shorthand for affection that both people understand does not erase autonomy.
He means ownership.
Alberte’s journal is at the forefront of my mind.
Twenty-five years of excuses, fear, yearning, submission, and the desperate belief that love somehow transformed possession into something beautiful.
“Une personne ne peut pas vous appartenir,” I say. A person cannot belong to you.
Henri looks down at me. For one extraordinary moment, his expression becomes genuinely baffled, and then amused. The kind of indulgent amusement an adult gives a child who has made an earnest but profoundly foolish declaration.
“Bien s?r que si.” Of course they can. Henri inclines his head slightly.
“Les gens appartiennent les uns aux autres constamment, Camille. Par amour. Par dépendance. Par peur. Par dette.” His mouth curves.
“La plupart préfèrent simplement utiliser des mots plus jolis.” People belong to one another constantly, Camille.
Through love. Through dependence. Through fear.
Through debt. Most simply prefer to use prettier words.
“You’re wrong.”
“Vraiment ?” Really? His eyes sharpen. “Et Ryan ?” And Ryan?
My stomach tightens, and I remain silent.
“N’est-ce pas précisément ce que vous avez fait avec lui ?” Is that not precisely what you have been doing with him?
Heat floods my face. “No.”
Henri’s brows lift. “Non ? Vous l’avez étudié.
Vous avez découvert ce qu’il voulait, ce qu’il craignait, ce qui lui manquait.
Vous avez rendu votre présence utile. Agréable.
” He smiles. “Désirable.” No? You studied him.
You discovered what he wanted, what he feared, what he lacked.
You made your presence useful. Pleasant. Desirable.
Henri continues, his tone conversational.
“Vous saviez qu’il était seul. étranger.
Vulnérable. Vous vouliez quelque chose qu’il possédait, alors vous avez fait en sorte qu’il vous ouvre sa porte.
” You knew he was alone. Foreign. Vulnerable.
You wanted something he possessed, so you made sure he opened his door to you.
Each sentence feels like a hand pressing against a bruise.
I know these things.
Ryan has said them, and I have said them to myself, yet hearing Henri say them changes their shape, because Henri sounds pleased—proud.
“Ne me comparez pas à vous,” I snap. Do not compare me to you.
“Pourquoi pas ?” Why not? His eyes gleam. “Parce que vous avez fini par éprouver quelque chose pour lui ? Est-ce cela qui vous rassure ?” Because you eventually began to feel something for him? Is that what reassures you?
My heart thuds painfully.
Henri laughs softly. “Ah.”
I hate that sound.
“Vous l’aimez.” You love him.
I say nothing.
There is nothing I can say that will not give him more.
Henri turns his head toward the men stationed around us. “Où est l’Américain ?” Where is the American?
My stomach rolls. No.
One of the men glances toward the hallway. “Nous n’avons pas encore fouillé toute la maison.” We haven’t searched the entire house yet.
Henri’s expression hardens. “Alors faites-le.” Then do it.
“No,” I gasp as one of the men begins moving. “Non,” I say more sharply. “Laissez-le en dehors de ca.” Leave him out of this.
Henri watches me with renewed interest. “Pourquoi ?” Why?
“Parce qu’il n’a rien à voir avec vous.” Because he has nothing to do with you.
Henri’s expression becomes almost tender. “Il est le petit-fils d’Alberte.” He is Alberte’s grandson.
“That means nothing,” I say.
“Pour vous, peut-être.” To you, perhaps.
His gaze settles over my face with terrible patience.
“Vous savez ce que je trouve fascinant ? Vous avez passé votre vie à me détester pour ce que j’étais avec Alberte, et pourtant, dès qu’un homme intéressant est apparu à votre porte, vous avez fait exactement la même chose.
” Do you know what I find fascinating? You spent your life hating me for what I was with Alberte, and yet the moment an interesting man appeared at your door, you did exactly the same thing.
“I did not.”
Henri’s eyebrows rise. “Vous l’avez manipulé.” You manipulated him.
“Oui.” The admission surprises him slightly. I continue before he can speak. “Et j’avais tort.” And I was wrong.
Henri sighs. “Quelle consolation.” How comforting.
“I know what I did.”
“Et moi aussi.” As do I.
“No.” My voice hardens. “That is the difference.”