She opened her mouth to speak. After all, what could it hurt?
“Christophe, I don't understand. I know the clochard was a violent man." She recalled the scene she'd seen only a week or so ago from the apartment window. "Had he been threatening you in some way?"
“Bernard? No. Do you think an old drunk like that could frighten me? Cretin! He was stupid and nosy.”
Not what she would categorize as the best possible defense for justifiable homicide. She decided to ferme-la. Her colloquial French was increasing by leaps and bounds and she desperately hoped she'd be able to display it for Tom.
Time went by. Christophe poured himself another glass of wine. It was producing no discernable effect. He lit a cigarette and Faith noticed the pack was almost empty. She hoped he had more. She didn't want him to be forced to quit now, however beneficial that might be to his health and hers. Irritability from nicotine withdrawal might just send him over the edge. But at the moment, lazily blowing smoke toward the ceiling and sipping his wine, he seemed at peace with the world—the world that appeared to owe him a living. She regarded him for some time in silence.
But there were simply too many questions.
“So, where were you when I came downstairs and how did you get him away so quickly?”
He laughed reminiscently. "You can imagine that I was surprised to see my neighbor come to dispose of her garbage at such an hour. But my father's office is just there, you know, and I have a key. It was very fortunate. Then when you left, I returned and put old Bernard in that small closet by the stairs. We got rid of him later.”
The placard, of course. That extremely convenient place for Ben's stroller—or a dead body.
“It was no easy job getting him in the poubelle," Christophe bragged. "They were late and I could not take the chance to leave him in the vestibule. Then, because of you, I had to lift him out again and up the stairs by myself. Ouf!"
“Eh bien." He wolfed the rest of his food down. "Now, bed.”
Bed. And all that suggested. Maybe there was a way out of this.
Back in the main room, he bent down to pick up something at the door, then said, "Upstairs. Allezl I'm tres fatigue. “
Thoughts of seducing her way out of the situation were quickly dispelled in the bedroom when he tied her wrists and ankles together again in the same way as before with the ropes he'd brought in from the car. As a final touch, he looped another length around her, securing her to the bed. Unless he was into bondage, her vague plan to charm him into submission would have to be scrapped.
“Bonne nuit, Madame Fairsheeld. Sleep well.”
Faith did not wish him the same. She was thinking of Sartre's famous remark: "Hell is other people.”
A bird cried sharply in the night and Faith opened her eyes in sudden panic. Where was she? She remembered and the panic did not subside. Christophe had spoken of the cloch-ard as a mere encumbrance, something to get out of the way, a fly buzzing on the wall. Yet it had to be more than that for him to take such a risk, and she still didn't know why he had killed the tramp. It was a point she hadn't wanted to press. It was dangerous to know too much. Although how she could be in more peril than she already was with what she'd learned was a moot point.
Christophe, acting with his uncle and some others— those references to "we" and "they"—had murdered the clochard in the vestibule. Something put in the tramp's beloved bottle, since there were no marks or blood on the man, apart from the scratch on his hand. Then, when she arrived on the scene, Christophe had repaired to his father's office, more than likely made a call or two about what had happened, then reappeared to spirit away the evidence as soon as she went back upstairs.
In the old Cevennes farmhouse, it had become very quiet. The door was open, but she could not hear anything from the room across the hall where her captor lay soundlessly in a deep and dreamless sleep. Soon she did the same.
The early morning sun streamed in the chambre's one small window. Faith opened her eyes. The room was charming. There was a large rustic armoire against one of the whitewashed walls and next to the bed, a round table covered with bright Provencal fabric was stacked with books. Across the room, a comfortable-looking chair draped in the same fabric sat next to an old marble-topped nightstand holding an arrangement of dried flowers in a turquoise vase. The door in the nightstand gave an urgency to her needs. Damn these ropes. She needed to get over there and see if there was a chamber pot behind the marquetry.
“Christophe! Christophe!" she called, waited, then tried again. He came stumbling into the room after her fourth attempt. His hair was rumpled and he was rubbing his eyes. The gun was shoved in the waistband of his jeans.
“What do you want?" he asked angrily. Christophe was obviously not a morning person. Neither was Faith under ordinary circumstances, whatever those had been in the past—& past that had receded so swiftly in the last twenty-four hours, it was beginning to take on a medieval character. Her immediate present contained but two thoughts: I am tired and I have to get out of bed.
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
He grunted and untied the knots. She stood up stiffly. The baby gave a little flutter. The sensation did not bring the joy of previous days. She took the blanket and wrapped it around herself. She had no intention of answering nature's call under the scrutiny of this eighteen-year-old. Let him take her to the outhouse.
To his credit, Christophe had piled blankets and a down comforter on Faith's immobilized body the previous night—out of concern for the future luminary she was carrying, no doubt. Without that drift of warmth, she was shivering. Her two thoughts were joined by a third, which she said out loud. "It's so cold. Do you think there are any jackets or sweaters in the house?"
“Perhaps in the armoire. It is always cold in the country in the mornings. You had better become used to it.”
So whatever plan he had hit upon involved keeping her here. She didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.
She opened the doors to the armoire and was rewarded by the sight of what was obviously the country wardrobe. She took a heavy Irish fisherman's sweater and some corduroy pants. Christophe grabbed a well-worn shearling jacket. Faith was annoyed she hadn't spotted it first. She put the sweater on and immediately felt more optimistic than she had since arriving. It was lovely to be warm again.
They did the Siamese-twin walk across the yard to the trees. It was beginning to become a familiar routine, but Faith would rather not have been joined by a gun. She slipped on the pants before leaving the privy. They were too long, so she turned up the cuffs, but otherwise they fit fairly well. She couldn't do up the button on the waistband, but the sweater hid the fact, and besides, she wasn't exactly worried about making a fashion statement at the moment. Now only her feet, clad in a thin pair of Bennis/Edwards flats, needed attention. Socks and boots of some sort were what she had in mind. Also a toothbrush.
As they walked back across the yard, she looked around her. It was beautiful. The house had been built on one of a number of deep terraces she could see covering the mountain. The others were marked by low, crumbling stone walls. Once they had been filled with rows of carefully tended green vines. Now they were yellow and purple with spring wildflowers. Below the house, the land continued to slope sharply, ending hi the stream she had heard the night before. Evergreens and deciduous trees stretched out on either side of the small area marked by civilization.