The world was never quiet

Lie 10 : I didn't love him

I said I would only tell the past, my past, and everything that happened. I said it, but it is my tale so I do what I want. I will digress on my present, which is the past of any reader, but which is currently… Anyway. My present.

I am currently hidden in an entresol above the ball room of what replaced Hotel Denouement as VFD's meeting place. Well, of course I'm not exactly welcome there and since it's at Hotel Denouement that we all took off our masks, no one really ignores who is on which side of the Schism. It's a bit more complicated regarding yours truly, since I don't even know where I exactly stand. Anyway. And I'm in an entresol, doubled over, and I'm listening to what's happening under my feet.

The sugar bowl case is over since quite a few months, and even if its fate is well-known – I mean, I wasn't really discrete, it's still in every discussions. Some think I still have its content. Some think it wasn't the true sugar bowl. Some even think it wasn't me, this day, in the middle of the High Court's flames. As it happens, there are all Volunteers but I'm quite certain the other side thinks the same things. Maybe in less neutral terms, though.

Why am I'm telling you that? To illustrate everything I said and repeated those last fifty pages. No matter how precise and neutral I am, no matter how much I insist on certain points, my trial is already done and I'm already judged. And condemned. Then why do I bother myself writing these lines? Ask the last living Snicket. It's his fault. As well as the first dead Snicket. Of course, in the latter, rather the first, well, you understood me, he was the first to judge me – quite justly, actually. But during all the time we've spent together, he reflected the person I could be, could have been. And Lemony, yes, still speaking of you, still believes in this person even if he knows what happened. That's the issue, with noble hearts; they don't know how to give up on a lost cause. It's a bit late to justify again these pages, but there we are, you know I'm doing it for him, for them. As much to prove them that I am a lost cause as to try one last time, the very last time, to show the world that if not completely innocent, I am not and will never be completely guilty.

Let's get back to business, shall we? Those flights of lyricism match the events I'm going to tell you about. Let me set the scene, if you please. The Village of Fowl Devotees was a charming town full a charming people and charming… No. The Village of Fowl Devotees was the most uninteresting, hideous and dreadful place I ever visited. Got you interested, hm?

I wasn't following Jacques, contrary to what has been said. I was following the Baudelaire because I had started investigating on the reason why Jacques suddenly decided to follow them. Lemony, say hi to the readers. There's not point in keeping the suspense going: he wasn't really trying to save the poor children, even if it would have been a great added bonus. He wanted to find his brother and he was following them. So I followed the Baudelaire to keep my mind busy, hoping I would cross Jacques' path, and without knowing I was also following Lemony. What an imbroglio, right? How could all this end badly?

Anyway, the issue was that though I had managed to gather a few notes written by Jacques and guess their general meaning, they stopped with they last guardians, the Squalor. Let's just say I wasn't any further ahead than any others regarding where the Baudelaire were. It took me every contacts I had and a few Volunteer Factual Dispatches to realize they were, as luck would have it, in VFD.

Except that Jacques knew that since way before me and he was on his way since then… So that as soon as I reached this lovely town, I found out that the merry mess you all know about had already begun and I had missed half of it. Quick summary: the Baudelaire spent their days helping the town's elderlies, lived with their handyman (who happens to be a Volunteer). Jacques and his goodwill appeared in this marvellous village and, since every times you give a police sketch to idiots, they always end up doing, well, idiocies, they recognized him as Olaf. Because of course, an unibrow, a eye on the ankle, who else could it be?

When I arrived, the town was restless. They were preparing Olaf's pyre, so excited that no one saw me. At least at the beginning. Back then, I could still go unnoticed. I arrived in the dead of the night and understood quickly that the execution was to take place the day after. The Baudelaire orphans had been sent to bed so I couldn't see them before… Before…

No, slower. When I understood they were going to execute Olaf, I thought it was really Olaf. Why would have I believed otherwise? I discretely went to the prison, picked a few locks and stunned the warden. Why? Don't be so curious. In fact, I don't really know. I don't know what I was going to say to Olaf, if it was really him. Maybe I would have regretted his death, at least a bit. Well, one thing was certain: I wasn't expecting Jacques to be in the cell. Absolutely not expecting that. And the way he looked at me told me he wasn't expecting me either. Not at all.

"Jacques?" I whispered. Just in case. My voice wasn't as confident as I wanted to – it was Jacques. And I was still myself, until proven otherwise. "What are…

- What are you doing here?

- I was searching for the Baudelaire, I realized they were here. But it's not important, why are you in prison?

- Ask them."

He gestured the door with a bitter look. His eyes were reddened – he cried. Another thing I never got to witness. Something to add to the long list of things I never had the time to do with him. Cry. What a joke. Anyway. I came closer to the bars.

Even with all the terrible things we said, all the terrible things I could have said, everything he said, I was magnetized. I wanted to slip between the bars and get him out of there, start again with a clean state. And I would have done it. I would still do it, even if I know he wouldn't want it more than at this point. He looked at me but didn't move from his bench. His jacket was ripped at his shoulder, his shirt was wrinkled – he'd travelled without stopping since he left. I gulped and released the bars.

"Who'd have thought you'd need me, finally?" I let out as I took my picking tools from my bag. "Don't thank me, not like I…"

I don't know how he managed to be this fast. He took my pliers, my tools, fast enough for me not to realize and grab them back. Knelt in front of the lock, I stared at him. And at my tools in his hand. I blinked. I stood up and got closer again. His eyes followed me. I shook my head and frowned. When I tried to take my tools, he stepped back. I didn't even touch them.

"What are you doing? They're preparing your pyre, you can't stay there!

- They can't do it without a trial.

- Without a…" I sighed and ran a tired hand across my face. "Jacques, this is not a court room, this a bunch of senile villagers! They are sure you are Olaf, they won't let you go! Give me my tools.

- No. Maybe it's like you to run away, but it's not like me."

I insulted him, I believe. Something like, bloody arsehole or else. I'm not certain, my memory fails me on the details of what happened this evening. And the first hours of the following day. I turned away for a few seconds before I came back to him. He still had my tools in hand. He could have picked the lock himself, but of course he didn't. I gritted my teeth and shook my head again. He didn't react. Not visibly enough anyway.

"It's about your life, Jacques. Can't you just cast your pride and morals aside, once in your life?

- Once, to get out of here," he slowly listed. "Twice to run from the cops. Thrice to survive an ambush. And then again, and again, every times it will be necessary. That's how you ended up setting…

- Oh for God's sake, Jacques!"

I screamed. He jumped. He wasn't expecting that – me neither, to be honest. The first time he caught me by surprise. He destroyed me, didn't give me enough time to get back on my feet. This time I was standing, ramrod straight in front of him, and I could reply. And if I were to lose him, I couldn't lose him without a word, without a fight.

Because there is a world of difference between the thought of losing him but knowing he was alive, and the thought of losing for good. Between the thought of never being able to make amends and the thought of never seeing him again. And I was ready to accept the former and let him go far from me, far as possible. But I wasn't ready to accept the latter. And I still can't accept it, and it's been months.

"You hate me, I betrayed you, I'm a bloodthirsty monster, a disappointment, an unspeakable monster, I get it. You don't want to see me, you don't want to owe hima anything, you hate me, I GET IT!" I hit the bars with my clenched fist. "But you can't let them kill you. I can't let them kill you.

- It's not up to you to decide what I have to do.

- You've been rather clear when you screamed that I hadn't done what I ought to do. It doesn't work both way? I won't repeat myself Jacques, give me my tools.

- No. You shouldn't have come here."

He threw my tools in the cell next to his. Closed, of course. But still within his reach. I shivered and felt my legs going weak. To keep composure, I clung onto the bars. I closed my eyes. My mind, my head were completely empty. I didn't feel anything but a terrible waste. I felt tears reaching my eyes. My whole body going weak.

You know what I wanted at this point? One thing. I wanted him out of his cell. I wanted to hold him against me one last time. To apologize. And let him go. Even if it meant I would never see him again, I would have given everything for him to get out this fucking cell. I kept quiet. When I opened my eyes, I stepped back from the bars and looked at him. I tried to imprint his figure, the angles of his face, the colour of his eyes in my memories. And I nodded slowly. Too slowly.

"You're letting Olaf getting away with this?

- Olaf always gets away with everything. It is the nature of criminals, to always get away with everything.

- And the nature of noble hearts to die for great moral ambitions?

- You would know," he let out coldly. "If you were one."

I dodged the insult as I would have dodged a bullet. I bled. I bled a lot and I think the wound is still open and still pours flood of blood all around me. I smiled, weakly at first, then more confidently. I weakened his confidence. He probably thought I had gone crazy but I had reached such a level that it didn't mean anything, did it?

I swallowed my pride. I knew, at this point, that it was the very last time I saw Jacques Snicket alive. The very last time I talked to him. The very last time I faced him. The very last time. I smiled and I let my tears run down my face. They rushed down me cheeks, calmly, while I spoke without stopping. And I tried for the very last time. Because that was all I could do.

"I love you, Jacques. I lost myself, I'm lost, but I can still find my way back. If you show me, if you help me, I can try… No, I can turn back into the woman you loved. I promise, I can do it, I just need your help, I just need you to get out of here. And… And if you don't want me, I will leave, you won't ever see me again, won't ever heard about me again, I won't exist anymore. I'll change my name, I'll move to another country, I'll disappear, but please, please, I beg you…

- Goodbye, Cassandre.

- Jacques…"

He turned away. I lowered my eyes. I nodded. Accepted. Took my bag, put in on my shoulder and walked. Slowly, I got further and further away from Jacques Snicket's cell. I went back to the village were everything was peaceful again. The world is quiet here. VFD had a way with words, here or other. I walked for a few minutes and I sat on the steps of a house. I stared at the void, the night before me. I tried to make sense of what just happened.

And the night was so black, so thick, I didn't see anything. And it's not a figure of speech, I really didn't see anything. I didn't see Olaf entering the prison and walk past the warden I had knocked out. But I heard. The gun's detonation. I jumped and stood up. Without realizing, in a few steps, I was back in the prison at the top of the stairs that went to the cells. And I was staring at a man, on his feet in front of the cell. I was staring at the real Olaf in front of the false Olaf's body. I was staring at Olaf in front of Jacques' body. I didn't collapse. I didn't even look at Jacques, I didn't glance at his body lying on the cold ground of his cell. I just stared at Olaf.

When he realized I was there, he aimed his weapon at me. I didn't move. I probably would have thanked him if he'd fired. But he didn't. He just got closer, cautious. And he kept staring. I had his knife in my pocket. I had matched. But I didn't do anything. I didn't throw a lighter. I didn't attack him. I was tired. I was worn out – I was empty.

"What are you doing here?

- I came to free him," I uttered. I didn't even lie. "To get him out of here.

- Ha! Too late, lass.

- I was there before you. He refused.

- He…"

He frowned. I shrugged. What else could I do? I had lost. I'd lost everything. The body lying next to me was everything I had left and everything I could hope for – death. At least that's what I thought back then. I seemed thoughtful, and it was and still is rare enough to be mentioned. And he understood. He laughed the usual manner – cruelly, sickly. It could have got me goose bumps if I had been able to feel anything.

"So it was him, your Volunteer." His smile widened. "Well sorry, sweetheart, but I iced him.

- He was going to die anyway.

- I wanted to make sure. If you want something done, do it yourself as they say," he sighed. He put a hand on my shoulder, either to hold me back or mock me. "Now, dear Cassandre, you have two possibilities. You help me retrieve the Baudelaire or…

- Or?"

I tilted my head. I was tired, not stupid. And despite all the questions one can ask about my logic and my morals, I wasn't going to help the man who just killed the love of my life, even if this love… Turned out to be one-sided. I frowned and took off his hand. It nonchalantly fell along his body. What was way less nonchalant was the hand that held the weapon whose barrel was against my chest, exactly where my heart was. Shoot, I thought. Shoot, you'll make my life easier. If I'm here telling you my pitifully life, you know he didn't do it.

"Or what, Olaf?" I continued. "You'll accuse me of the murder. One more, one less, why would it matter?

- You're not made of this stuff. You wouldn't survive five minutes.

- Is that a dare? It just happens that I lost all reasons to live. I'm ready to bet me life." I took his hand and the weapons he held, and put it on my forehead. "So go ahead. Shoot. I don't give a shit. Accuse me.

- And if I don't? If I have you live with the thought that I killed him?

- Then I'll kill you."

He smiled. So did I. And he lowered his weapon, packed it. I wasn't relieved. I didn't feel anything, no change. I looked behind and shrugged. He left, and closed the door behind him. Locked it. He had the key – of course he had the key. He had allies everywhere. The challenge was all the more interesting.

I walked with him for a few seconds before stopping. A notebook poked out of his back pocket. It was Jacques'. I took a deep breath. It was next to his weapon. I just had to be fast – I could be.

So I was extremely fast. I rushed to the weapon and the notebook and aimed the firearm at him. He didn't move, as if he was expecting it. He kept his hands deep in his pockets. I couldn't let him take the notebook. There were every information Jacques had gathered about the sugar bowl in there. Every press cuttings, every files regarding my father, everything I had given him, pages from the Snicket file – even if I didn't know they were important. All I knew was that this notebook was a weapon, whatever hands held it. And mine were better than his.

"So you really loved this damned idiot.

- No I didn't. But this," I said, gesturing the notebook. "This is a weapon. And I won't let you have it.

- I'll take it from your body.

- Not sure you'll live long enough."

He smiled again. And turned back, walked to the fountain and didn't look back. Once I could be sure he would be able to see me, I ran. Yes, I ran. Like a lunatic, just like a few months before when I still followed my father's orders. I ran and I never stopped. I didn't breath correctly. I swallow mist, sang, earth, years and cold air. I ran. I didn't stop.

I didn't stop until I reached a lost motel. And when I stopped, I fell. No one was there to get me on my feet, of course. I was alone. So I stared at the sky overhead, the clouds in it. I tried to catch my breath. I was short of breath. Short of life. I could have died, this morning – yes, it was already the morning. I could have shot myself. I could have given everything up. I didn't. Some say I should have had the bravery of dying. Some say it's too noble from me. I'll just say I didn't think about it.

And there we are. The end of the first part of my life – the last, in a sense. From this day forward, I didn't live, I survived. I still survive. Jacques is dead and he took me with him, but he didn't see fit to tell me. I lost so much, this evening. Not only him, I lost my anonymity. The day after, newspapers would stick up my face on every shops and blame me, alongside with the Baudelaire, for Jacques Snicket's death. But contrary to what Olaf thought, I was made of this stuff. I could survive. After all, I never stopped running since my father told me to.