Concerto to the Memory of an Angel Read Online Free PDF

her fingers. Her passion for Gabriel intensified by a notch.
    In the rising warmth of springtime, their daily tête-à-tête in the cramped confession box became suffocating. By the time they parted, they were both exhausted, drained, but they had regained their strength by the time of their next meeting.
    She took a bawdy pleasure in shocking Gabriel, almost as if they were in bed together and she was finding ways to make him relax by sharing episodes of sensual refinement—bold, unexpected, taboo. For example, she insisted upon the brutality with which she had drowned her lover: it had been pure impulse. It is true that Rudy had drunk so much that night that he no longer had the vigor nor the necessary wisdom to resist her in the bathtub. She then emphasized the sangfroid with which she concealed her crime; she loved to tell of how she and her sister Blanche rolled the corpse up in a carpet, dumped it in the back of a stolen car, drove seven hundred kilometers, boarded a boat in Brittany in the pitch of night, tossed the corpse with its weight of stones into the dark water, returned in the early hours of the day, scrubbed the car inside out, and finally abandoned it with all its keys in the middle of a parking lot known to be the hangout of gangs who, they hoped, would leave their prints all over it. This all happened far from Saint-Sorlin, in Biarritz, where she had rented a house with the inheritance from her three husbands.
    For the first time in her life she revealed the episode with Olga, Rudy’s mistress, the one he saw regularly between his liaisons with women of a certain age. Olga had begun to fret over the absence of her man, and she burst into Marie’s house screaming that she suspected her of bumping him off and that she would denounce her to the police. Betraying neither emotion nor fear, Marie had assured her that Rudy had gone abroad and had entrusted Marie with a sum of money to give to Olga. With the lure of gain, the lie became credible: the Russian woman now thought better of going to the police. Marie arranged to meet her that night on the terrace of a bar popular with all the local young people. There she handed her an envelope containing a few bank notes, and promised her the rest of the money the next day; she slipped poison into the young woman’s cocktail and left her in the company of the revelers.
    Although neither the press nor the authorities ever mentioned Olga’s disappearance, Marie was convinced that the young woman had died, because she had never come to claim the rest of the money she was owed.
    All this talk about murder, the underworld, blackmail, and corruption made Gabriel feel faint. Marie could sense his distress; it was as if she were initiating him to real life, to the world the way it truly is, hostile and violent. In a way, she was teaching him a thing or two.
    And henceforth Yvette could go and cry all alone in a corner, for now Gabriel pushed her away, assuring her that he would spend time with her as soon as he had the opportunity. He sent the other penitents packing as well. While he still said mass, and magnificently, he was no longer free: he was obsessed by the poisoner’s confessions, haunted by her murders. Marie Maurestier had won. She reigned over Abbé Gabriel, and over the village.
    Marie was enchanted that he was now the guardian of her secrets, and she thrilled to see how he lied about her, standing up to those bitter old hags who came to quack in their ugly duck-like voices that they were surprised he devoted so much time to her.
    â€œYou’re not going to tell us she’s innocent, now are you, Father? Otherwise why would she spend so much time in the confession box?”
    â€œHer soul has suffered great injustice—like the horrible accusations you yourself are bringing against her at this very moment, my child, without even a trace of kindness.”
    He was better than a confidante; he was an accomplice. They shared