Page 84 of The Last Restaurant in Paris

‘Confess?’ breathed Sabine.

‘Yes.’ Sister Augustine nodded. ‘She didn’t mean to kill Henri, this I can tell you straight away, and I must admit that when she came here and told me what she had done, I wished that she would have tried to explain to you what had happened ’

Gilbert’s lip wobbled. ‘Why didn’t she?’

‘She wanted to – wanted to be absolved by you, but she thought that wouldn’t be fair to ask. I believe she felt she deserved your anger, your hatred; after all, she might not have intended for him to die, but it was nonetheless caused by her own hand. I believe she felt no excuse could justify this, so she should be condemned as a murderer, a monster, for what she had allowed to happen.’

They stared at her in shock. Tracks of tear were slipping unbidden from Gilbert’s eyes.

Sister Augustine dabbed her own eyes with a corner of her habit. She swallowed, and then said, ‘I will tell you what I know, but I think to really understand her story, we must start at the beginning, so if you’ll allow me, I would like to share it – or at least the parts of it she told me.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Sabine.

Gilbert nodded too.

Sister Augustine took a sip of lemonade, like a fortification. ‘In 1926, when Elodie was nine her mother died from tuberculosis in front of her and the shock of it turned the young child mute. Her father was a wealthy aristocrat living in England and it was decided that for the time being she would be taken to live with her grandmother, Marguerite, in Provence.

‘Marguerite was delighted to have her grandchild back in her life, as the two had been kept apart because Elodie’s mother Brigitte and Marguerite had a falling out when she ran away with a married man. A man who while he assured Brigitte he would care for her and the child, Marguerite knew would not leave his first wife for her, and when this proved true, it only seemed to fuel Brigitte’s desire to stay away from her mother. A sad resentment that kept them apart till her death. No one regretted this more than Marguerite and she was determined to pour all the love she had on her grandchild. Which she did.’ At this she smiled. ‘Though it wasn’t actually Marguerite that made Elodie finally begin to talk. That was your grandfather, Jacques Blanchet.’

When she spoke of Jacques Sister Augustine’s voice caught.

‘Did you know him too?’ breathed Sabine.

‘Yes. Not far from here was the Blanchet vineyard. It bordered your great-grandmother’s – she owned a small parcel of land and he looked after her vines too. Jacques was a wonderful child; deep, introspective, he stayed away from most other children his age but he sought Elodie out when he heard that she had lost her voice and her mother, something he could relate to, having lost his mother not long before. I think he thought of her as a kind of wounded bird, one he could fix.’ She smiled softly, her dark eyes looking into the past. ‘And you know, for a while, he really did.’

She regarded her guests. ‘As a nun, I’m not really meant to keep possessions, but I have a photograph of their wedding.’ To their dismay, tears edged the corner of her eyes. ‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Sabine, sitting forward eagerly.

Sister Augustine nodded, then she reached inside the pocket of her habit, and brought out a thick envelope. She opened it, and took out a small black-and-white photograph with decorative edges.

Sabine recognised Elodie immediately. She looked young and pretty, her dark blonde hair in waves around her shoulders. There was a chain of flowers on her head. She was standing in the middle of a vineyard with a farmhouse in the background. On her left was an older woman with white hair and almost the same smile as her. Their faces were close together, and on Elodie’s right, looking down slightly, his face away from the camera as he smiled, was a handsome man with dark eyes and dark curly hair.

‘This was Marguerite?’ Sabine guessed, touching the picture. ‘And my grandfather. He was handsome. He looks so happy.’

Sister Augustine nodded. ‘They were. It’s hard to imagine that just a few years after this he would be murdered by that horrible man.’

Sabine stared at the nun in shock. ‘Murdered?’

‘Yes. By a person whose name I have never been able to forget in all these years, though there were times I wished – prayed, really – that we had never been told it. How different her life might have been – how different all your lives might have been, then.

‘His name was Otto Busch.’

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