(A/N: This is a translation of the German story Gefangene der Angst by E.M.K.81, which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)
Mistrust
Pierre appeared to have acquired a penfriend. For whatever reason, he received regular letters and sometimes even a parcel, and wrote dutifully back. The letters were always addressed to P.F.E. Bertrand, and his answers went to an anonymous numbered P.O. Box in Paris. This attracted attention — the Vicomte in particular thought it curious — but no-one said anything to him about it.
When it was the season for balls, Christine insisted that they should hold one.
"But not a masked ball: every kind of disguise is forbidden, otherwise we might as well send Erik an invitation," she warned, and set about putting together a guest list. Dubois, who kept a list of the names and addresses of everyone of birth and rank in a meticulous card index, assisted her in the task.
"Have we forgotten anyone?" she asked Dubois, and Pierre — who yet again felt the need to interfere — put in: "The chief of police, his deputy and the latter's assistant."
"Why do we have to invite them?" asked Raoul, astonished. He had taken Marie onto his knee and was playing with her.
"One never knows when a favour from the police — a sympathetic report or a friendly atmosphere for an interrogation of witnesses — might not come in handy. At the very least you ought to be inviting them so that you can find out what kind of little favours you can do for them."
"I do hope Marie didn't hear that," sighed the Vicomte. "Were you just instructing me on how to corrupt the police?"
"Of course not. Nobody's talking about corruption — only about establishing good relations and making pleasantries. You've already contrived excellently where the President of the Court is concerned, but that's not enough; it's the police who are first on the scene, and anything that goes wrong at that point is hard to put right later, even before the most generous of judges."
"How have I contrived?" asked Raoul, taken completely aback.
"The President of the Court, to whom you leased out hunting rights at a bargain price?" prompted Pierre.
"That was him? That friendly old gentleman who was so delighted at an invitation to the hunt?"
"You mean you didn't know?" Pierre was amused. "And here I thought it was all a deep-laid plan..."
This was the last straw for Dubois. "Can't you do anything without devious motives? And just when I was beginning to take you for a decent human being!"
He went off to deal with the invitations. The glance he cast at Pierre in passing made it clear that he would have preferred to spit in his face. Pierre ground his teeth and tried to pretend he had not noticed.
"You know our problem," he said defensively. "We've already had one corpse in the Chateau — next time we need to be better prepared."
"Next time?" asked Christine, horrified.
Pierre relented. "I too hope there won't be any next time, but one can never be too careful. And in such a case I'd prefer the police report to read self-defence, rather than murder. If the attacker is the only one to get hurt, self-defence is not so easy to prove."
"Lala," demanded Marie at that moment.
"There, there, Marie, Mama will sing for you," said Christine, who was delighted by Marie's fondness for music.
"No, Er lala, Er lala."
By Er she meant Pierre. Marie abbreviated most names to their final syllable: from Babette she made Et, from Yvonne, the nursemaid, On, and Pierre was simply Er.
"Well, what do you want to play?" asked Pierre.
"No lala, lala! Lala, no lala!" insisted Marie tearfully.
Raoul held her on his knee and tried to soothe her. "He'll play with you right away."
"I think that's not what she means," Christine explained. "Lala with the stress on the first syllable means playing, on the second syllable... means singing."
They all turned and stared at Pierre.
"But I can't sing," said Pierre with a shrug. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Christine shook it off. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tense, that's all. It's probably my condition — I'm so afraid something will happen to the baby. My worry's playing tricks on me."
Pierre excused himself and left the room. Marie began to cry, and was only comforted when Christine sang her a nursery rhyme.
The planning for the ball was extremely complex. Pierre would have preferred to lock the guests into the chateau but Raoul insisted that it was the dogs who should be locked away into the gatehouse. "If you're that worried, put on a tailcoat and come to the ball — then you'll be on the spot near us."
"Out of the question. I don't belong there. I'll be in the kitchen, where servants should be."
The Vicomte was stung. "You're more a family friend than a servant. And if you promise to behave yourself, then I see no problem."
"I do," retorted Pierre: "I can't do it."
Raoul noticed suddenly that Pierre appeared nervous. "You're afraid, aren't you?"
Pierre bit his lip and said nothing.
Raoul gave in. "I won't force you to do it. But what are you afraid of?"
"I don't generally feel comfortable in fine society. The rules of the game there are something that I simply don't understand."
~o~
The ball turned out to be an excellent idea. Christine relaxed visibly during the preparations; the more people and the more bustle of activity she had about her, the less she was afraid of Erik.
It proved a shining success. Compared to Parisian balls it might have been a flat and dull affair, but it was a glittering highlight among provincial entertainments.
On the day before the ball Raoul went down to the kitchen in order to discuss the menu with Babette. Properly speaking, this was a task for the lady of the house — but just then the latter couldn't stand to hear so much as a word spoken about food; she was feeling queasy again.
The kitchen door stood open a crack, and Raoul could see Pierre sitting astride a chair with his arms propped across the back and his head on his arms. The three dogs lay beside him. Raoul saw them only from behind, for all four — and at that moment the Vicomte really did get the impression of four great grey shaggy dogs — were looking towards the dresser, where Babette was standing and working on something that was out of his field of view.
"You're going to have to tell them some time," said Babette, and Raoul froze. He was not at all in the habit of eavesdropping, but he could at least wait a moment before he went in.
"I know," said Pierre with a sigh. Scraps of meat flew towards the dogs, who snapped them up skilfully, and Raoul half expected another one to be tossed in Pierre's direction.
"This can't go on," insisted Babette.
"Why not? It's working out, one way or another."
"It is not. Every time post arrives for you, you break out into a sweat. You've managed to checkmate yourself this time — how does it feel to be terrified every time the postman calls?"
Pierre growled; really growled, like a dog.
"If you say nothing, you're playing into his hands," the cook warned. Judging by the sound, she had begun to chop the herbs.
"I've got three choices," Pierre admitted in resignation. "I can kill him — but the last time, I simply couldn't bring myself to do it..."
"Which I'm glad to hear," broke in Babette severely.
"...or I can go on like this. Or I can empty the safe, grab a horse and make a run for it."
"So what's stopping you?"
"I can't. The thought of never seeing Marie again... it's unbearable."
Raoul held his breath. He had never imagined Pierre capable of robbing him, yet Pierre had apparently given serious thought to it. On the other hand he had dismissed the idea again...
"How does it feel to be on the receiving end?" enquired Babette.
Pierre was shaking. "Like hell. He's enjoying it, I know that much."
"Then do something — speak up!"
"I can't!" cried Pierre, and for a while both were silent. Nothing could be heard save the scraping of the knife.
"Saying nothing is also a form of lying," Babette reminded him.
"Don't you preach morality to me," Pierre flung back at her. "Do you even know who the fathers of your children are?"
He ducked adroitly beneath a kitchen knife that stuck in the wall behind him. "You'll never make a knife-thrower," he spat, and the three dogs made off for another corner of the kitchen as he stood up and disappeared from Raoul's view. "Better stick to the frying pan."
"You'll get it over your head in a minute!"
"Oh yes?"
"Yesmmmpf..."
Raoul decided to make his presence known and went into the kitchen. He was greeted at once by the joyous barking of the dogs, and Pierre and Babette sprang apart from one another as if they had been burnt.
"I didn't mean to interrupt..." said the Vicomte, rather embarrassed, as he saw Babette go red and Pierre, breathing hard, turn away towards the wall. Pierre passed both hands up over his face, then turned to Raoul.
"What did you hear?" His voice sounded almost shrill.
"That you are being blackmailed and had thought of robbing me on that account," answered the Vicomte sternly.
"Oh, God," groaned Pierre and clung to one of the cupboards for support. "Monsieur, please believe me — I would never do that. It's true that in my desperation I've thought about it, but... You heard it for yourself: I would never do that."
"But only on account of Marie," pointed out Raoul.
Pierre shifted in embarrassment from one foot to the other and stared at the ground.
"Well? Do I get an answer?" said Raoul, and Pierre began, stammering: "If... if... but it's not... perhaps... I... Confound you, Babette, say something!"
"Me? You made this bed for yourself, my dear, now lie in it on your own!" Babette told him firmly, as if Pierre were a naughty child and Raoul the strict teacher.
"All right, I thought about it. But I won't do it," insisted Pierre. "I won't do anything to hurt you or your family."
The Vicomte considered for a while. "The question isn't closed, but it can keep until after the ball. Babette, what are the plans for the menu?"
~o~
The ball took place as planned, and — to the Vicomte's great surprise — nothing untoward happened, and he was finally able to enjoy a couple of carefree hours with his wife.
The following day, he summoned Pierre to his study and put him to the question. Pierre stood hunched up with his head hanging down. The Vicomte sat in the armchair behind his desk.
"So, Monsieur Bertrand, what have you to say?" Raoul began.
Pierre muttered something into his beard.
"I beg your pardon?" said Raoul, and Pierre shook his head.
"Don't make things so difficult!" said Raoul, annoyed. "We both know I heard part of your conversation with Babette; I know that you're being blackmailed, and furthermore that you've considered doing away with your blackmailer or robbing me and making off with the money."
Pierre nodded and clenched his hands into fists.
"I have to know if this constitutes a risk to our security." Raoul laid particular stress on the phrase "risk to our security", one of Pierre's favourite expressions.
"No," said Pierre definitely. "No risk at all."
"You're being blackmailed — that's a risk."
"But only to me, sir, not to you."
"Then talk about it, Monsieur Bertrand; speak up and let's hear the truth. Otherwise I have no way to know what is going on and shall have to report the matter to the police so that they can find out what the issue is."
"Please, not the police," begged Pierre.
"Sit down and stop fidgeting!" said the Vicomte, more harshly then he had intended. Pierre took a seat and said nothing, biting at his fingernails. He somehow gave the impression of a small schoolboy confessing that he had forgotten his homework.
"Now, who is blackmailing you?" Raoul began the interrogation.
"The same man I had to go and meet," said Pierre evasively.
Raoul cast his eyes up to the heavens. "Don't make this so difficult — who is this man, and how is he blackmailing you? What is he after?"
"Do you want the whole story, then?"
"If you please."
Pierre sighed. "Very well. He is the same man whom I recently had to go and meet."
"The one whose son you killed?"
"The same. He... he has evidence against me in his possession, and if he takes it to the right people then I am as good as dead. He tracked me down; how he found me here I have no idea, but he wanted us to meet. I went to the meeting determined simply to shoot him. But I just couldn't do it. I had him in my sights, but I couldn't do it. That's never happened to me before — to be simply unable to kill.
"So I had a talk with him, as he wanted. In return for his silence he wanted me to give him the key, and I submitted. As I couldn't kill him, I had no choice."
"What key?" asked the Vicomte.
"I have a cellar in Paris where things of mine are stored. Now he has practically all my personal possessions. The parcel he sent me contained belongings of mine."
"What more can he ask for, if you have already handed over everything?"
"It was never about money," responded Pierre. "Never. He demands that I answer his questions. He sends them to me, I write down my answers and send them back. Then sooner or later the next questions come and I have to reply. It's like a cross-examination, but one carried out through the post."
Raoul reflected, then observed: "The more you tell him, the more entangled you become — had you considered that?"
Pierre sighed. "He doesn't ask questions which would force me to incriminate myself. I think he just wants to let me know that he is still there, and that I'll never be rid of him so long as we both live."
Both fell silent, thinking it over. Raoul asked, finally, "Why did you kill his son?"
Pierre winced, clearly choosing his answer very carefully. "We were on the same side back then. His son was my friend. When he was... struck down... there was nothing more I could do to help, and yet I couldn't leave him to his fate. So I took his life to spare him from worse suffering. His father has never got over it. Since then he has always been at my heels. I think he simply wants to make sure that I can never forget what I have done."
"That's crazy," said Raoul. "On the other hand, if I think about Marie..."
He shuddered, then continued, "It's also quite understandable. Are you sure he won't do anything to you?"
"Absolutely. If he had wanted to, he would have killed me years ago."
They fell silent again. "And what do we do now?" asked Raoul.
Pierre sighed. "I wish I knew. There is simply nothing else I can do save submit to answering his stupid letters, however much I hate it. As long as he demands nothing more from me, I shan't be at risk."
"On that I don't agree," said Raoul firmly. "You've seriously considered robbing me."
Pierre winced. "Yes, I have. But I would never do it. I... sometimes I take cigarettes, wine or even cognac, but... certainly not money or valuables. Little things, most of which you've allowed me to have anyway. I would do anything to be able to stay here. Here, it's... peaceful."
He stressed the word 'peaceful' as if it were his idea of paradise.
"Peaceful?" Raoul stared at him in amazement. "Peaceful? You're here in order to keep an insane assailant away from us, and you find it peaceful?"
"Perhaps we simply have different standards of comparison," Pierre conceded.
"The fact remains that you have seriously considered robbing me. I take that very personally." The Vicomte grimaced. "You've forfeited my trust: how do you propose to solve that?"
"I... I didn't mean for you to hear about it," stammered Pierre, "I confessed it to Babette. You eavesdropped on us in secret."
"Don't you throw the blame on me! You seriously considered it. You would have robbed me and made a run for it. So how am I to trust you again?"
"I didn't DO it," retorted Pierre. "I thought about it, yes, and if I'd really wanted to do it I'd be long gone by now. The only thing that counts is what I actually DO — judge me on that."
This answer brought a grin from Raoul. "All right, you win. I'm prepared to act as if I'd never overheard your confession. But rest assured that from now on I'll be keeping a very sharp eye on you."