September 18th 1892: Raoul
I wouldn't have believed it possible, but Christine's decision to always send Jacqueline to tell the children a bed-time story was wrong. She should rather send me instead, for I seemed to have quite the talent for making up stories. Well, since I was at home so rarely, the children would have to wait very long for their stories, so perhaps it was better to send Jacqueline after all.
But now, my story came just at the right time, and I almost wished Antoinette and Philippe would have been here as well to hear it. It was a fascinating experience to have all those people hanging to my every word. The young policeman was taking notes, and the older one merely listened. At the beginning, he had still asked questions every now and then, yet the longer I talked, the more silent he had become. Everyone was silent, everyone except myself. Christine sometimes coughed dryly, which made me speed up a little every time I heard it. She doubtlessly looked much healthier than before, but she did need a doctor.
At first, I had still been afraid that the policemen might frown and shake their heads, but the fear vanished quickly. I didn't know whether it was my talent as a story-teller or the fact that they didn't dare question anything told by a Comte which made them listen to me, yet actually it didn't matter either way, as long as they believed me.
The story I made up was very nice. I left out everything that had happened before the fire. As much as I disliked the thought that the criminals wouldn't be punished for those dreadful crimes that had made our family so unhappy, I was aware that it was too late to bring it up now. It would have caused many questions as to why we hadn't alerted the police sooner. I doubted the policemen would have liked to hear that we didn't trust them too much.
So I let my story begin this afternoon, claiming that Christine had told me all about it. The fewer people talked, the fewer contradictions there could be, and Christine didn't seem to mind remaining silent. She was still playing the role of the frightened wife, and she was playing it very well.
Accroding to my new version of the events, the criminals had tried to break into the house and steal everything they could carry. Yet when they hadn't managed to enter the house, rage and frustration had made them set it on fire. I didn't tell tell the policemen about the chaos of who had left the house when and had come back for which reason, but simply let everyone remain inside the house. Larisse had only enumerated the true story for me very quickly when we had met at the gate, and I hardly recalled it myself. Besides, since I couldn't say anything about the conversation with Marielle's father, the whole story would have sounded even stranger than it already did.
I invented an errand for Gabriel which had made him leave the house. On returning, he had met me as well as a brave stranger in the street in front of the house, which had already been on fire at that time. I later found out that it didn't match Pierre's version of the events, but the policemen didn't comment on it. They seemed to have decided that my story was the only one they believed.
Larisse and the children had managed to escape from the burning house in one way or the other, and I had sent them straight to the police, while we men had gone to see whether we could help the others. Of course we had had no idea that the ones responsible for the fire had still been around at that time, or we'd have waited for the police. Yet seeing the house burn and knowing that my wife had still been in it, I had simply had to act. Christine was clinging to me while I was talking, throwing me admiring glances. I had to admit that it felt rather good to be adored like that. Even the wounds in my face weren't stinging that much anymore.
Once we had walked around the house, we had spotted the criminals at once, standing there and gloating. I couldn't quite explain why they hadn't left, but Inspector Claudoir helped me, assuming that they had stayed to wait for the house to burn down completely, so they they could search the ruins for valuables. Personally, I thought the explanation didn't make sense, for the criminals would have had to wait for hours, yet since the policeman had brought it up, I certainly wouldn't argue with him about it.
The moment the criminals had seen us, they had started a fight, and we hadn't known what else to do than defend ourselves. Growing bold, I added that we had only done so to give the people still trapped in the house the chance to escape. At that point, Christine gave me a little nudge, telling me without words not to exaggerate, lest I made the policemen suspicious. So I went on quickly, saying that during the fight, the people in the house had indeed managed to escape, yet the criminals had run after them to keep them from going to the police.
The honest man from the street, who had by now introduced himself as Pierre, had gone after them, and in the meantime, we had noticed that our dear maid Jacqueline had been missing. So the brave coachman had gone inside to find her, and the butler Jacques and I had helped from the outside. It was fortunate that Gabriel and I had talked about it before, so that at least this part of the story was close to what had really happened.
I also told the policemen that the whole situation had simply been too much for the elderly butler, and he had collapsed. My voice faltered, and I had to make a little pause. Finding my dear old butler, my companion since my birth, lying in a heap on the ground, his face white and his eyes closed, had been one of the most horrible experiences of my life. I didn't have to pretend that I was moved. I suppressed a sigh, fervently hoping that Jacques would recover. If he didn't, I'd never forgive myself for not having taken him with me to Oslo. I should have at least stayed with him till the doctor arrived. Perhaps I'd have been able to do something…
A polite little cough reminded me that this was not the right time for pondering. I finished my story by telling them that Gabriel had come back with Jacqueline and that we had decided to wait for the police rather than leaving the injured people alone.
"That is all," I said, taking a deep breath. I wasn't used to talking that much. Surely the bed-time stories for Antoinette and Philippe never were that long.
"Very well, M. le Comte," Inspector Claudoir muttered, sounding a little exhausted himself. "Have you written down everything important, Paul?"
The young policeman nodded, holding up his notes.
"Can we finally go now?" I asked. "My wife needs to see a doctor."
"Erm… no," Inspector Claudoir replied uneasily. "I'm afraid that won't be possible yet. Your wife… she still has some questions to answer."
"But I told you everything," I protested. "Surely there can be nothing else you want to know."
"As a matter of fact, there is," he said stiffly. "I think I can do with the information you gave me about how the fire started, since your wife told you about it. However, you stayed behind at the house while she ran away. So I need to know what happened in the garden, especially since it ended with one man lying on the ground, unconscious." He pointed at the spot where Marielle's father had been.
"All right," I agreed. "You can question her, but only as long as she feels able to. Christine, dear, do you think you can answer a few questions for the policeman?" She nodded faintly, clutching my hand for support. "Well, then tell him what happened when you ran away."
"That man followed me," she muttered, staring at the ground. She was indeed playing her role very well. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought it had really happened that way.
"He followed me here, where I couldn't escape," she went on, her voice trembling. "Of course I couldn't climb over the wall. He tried to grab me by the arm and pull me back, but I pushed him away, and he fell to the ground. He must have hit his head on something. I didn't mean to hurt him, I promise."
"You only defended yourself," Inspector Claudoir assured her, throwing her a cautious glance. It seemed as if he were afraid the memory might make her burst into tears. "It was just the right thing to do. I'm sure your husband is very proud of you as well."
"Oh yes," I agreed. "Very proud indeed." Yet no matter what I said, I didn't believe that it had truly been Christine who had caused the man to pass out. I strongly suspected the Phantom had had something to do with it, but of course I couldn't bring up that topic now.
"Now all I need to know is what happened to you," Inspector Claudoir said, gesturing at Marielle and Pierre. "I'm particularly interested in the origin of the pistol."
I saw them Marielle and Pierre exchange a meaningful glance and knew they had prepared themselves for the question.
"It's mine," Pierre replied. "I had it with me on my walk… for security reasons. The streets of Paris aren't as safe as they used to be. And when I went after this woman to protect her from the criminals, I used the pistol to threaten them. I wouldn't have actually shot anyone, of course."
Inspector Claudoir frowned.
"You're taking a pistol with you when going for a walk in one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in Paris?" he asked.
"It's not as safe as it used to be," I hastened to argue. "Who'd have believed that criminals would try to break into a house in broad daylight?"
Inspector Claudoir opened his mouth, then closed it again, apparently lost for words. I thought it was time to repeat the one important question I had.
"Can we finally go now?"