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About the novel: Murder in Beaujolais

While the Beaujolais region of France in the late 50's, early 60's, is an idyllic rural setting, the strange and horrific crime wave which takes place is a manifestation, some call, ungodly. At the center of these frightful events, there is a baby orphan, Jeanne, who comes of age in the convent des Ursulines. Torn between earth and heaven, she becomes an avenging angel, before surrendering to her destiny.

EXCERPT Of "MURDER IN BEAUJOLAIS"

There was a time when we were happy, my Cathie and I. Two boys, four and six years old, enriched our lives. The eldest begin to follow in my footsteps with small chores at the farm. Our days were fine, filled with hard-work and goodness. Then you came along after nine months of hardship, and on the night of the Saint-Jean, you and the devil stole my Cathie's life away. Here I stand, bundle in my arms, facing the Convent des Ursulines and its revolving baby hutch. So many stars, bright as my Cathie's soul. Since your passing, I know deep in my heart, that you are one of heaven's angels, looking down upon me. You can see, I have to let go of the babe; she would not outlive a day without you. I can raise the boys. You gave them life and love, but the baby... I cannot.

Sister Marie-Benoîte heard first, the crystalline song of the rescue nest's bell. Her nose buried in a simmering thyme and sage decoction, still, hers ears pricked to the faint tinkling. Leaving the steaming pot under a cover, the sister hastily walked toward the massive doors. Not expecting anyone at the gate, her eyes instinctively drifted at the small revolving compartment cut into it. With a sigh, she gingerly lifted the little bunch wrapped in a coarse blanket from the depository basket.

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FREE SHORT STORY FOR YOU TO READ

Requiem

PHEW, I'M ALMOST finished with my deliveries. Like almost every Tuesday, I took the subway at the end of my street, then in the first wagon, grabbed a window seat near the exit door. I rarely look out the glass, because outside, it's the same parade of houses and streets, although since the tracks are overhead, our view often skims over the streets and buildings, offering a unique perspective.

However, after so many journeys, for me, nothing changes in this monotonous urban landscape, and I would have to wait a few decades for the buildings to show their decay, for rot to emerge, or for them to simply disappear. To pass the time, at most, thirty minutes of travel, I resort to my favorite pastime. It consists simply of studying the physique of each passenger I see, and detecting an element of beauty within it.

I don't pay much attention to the handsome ones, the well-turned ones, the enchantresses, the seducers. There is, in fact, no challenge there and no need for my powers of perception. So, today, I start with a lady sitting opposite me. She must be in her fifties, her skin is sad, and her eyes are lowered onto a magazine. She is stout, squeezed into a blue-gray suit. After having dissected her from every angle, for once, I am ready to admit defeat.

However, when the train stops, opens its doors and a young man in his twenties enters and walks past us, my neighbor across my seat looks up, gazes at him, then smiles. Victory! I have unearthed her hidden prettiness. It lies in her smile. It illuminates her, her face transforms, her brown eyes dilute in warmth, and the joy on her thin, crescent-shaped lips exudes kindness.

My second examination focuses on a very ordinary young woman in her twenties, with flat, straight, blond hair, and light blue, eyes as alert as those of dead fish. She is plump all over, even her hands. Ah, but I'm right: it's her hands! For at the very tips, the thick fingers taper and are adorned with magnificent little nails, exquisite in their perfect oval, translucent pink, with a very slight satiny shine, without any artifice of nail polish. My gaze wanders from her face to her perfect nails, and I forget her ugliness. For me, these little moments in public, where I nevertheless find myself isolated in my own little, secret world, are magical. I leave them, these interludes, always with regret.

The train screeches along the tracks until it stops. I rush down the subway stairs and find myself face to face with the main street flooded with people and noise, passing under the tracks of the train, which then departs and continues its journey. I quickly orient myself, to conclude my business as quickly as possible, so that I can return home and regain my freedom and the solitude of my little sanctuary, my modest lodging.

A little later, I retrace the same route in reverse. In my head, I review my visits; the new orders I will have to fulfill, their difficulties, and the joy I will have in creating these pieces with the marvelous precious stones resting in their little yellow envelopes at the bottom of my satchel, and which, through my care, will adorn unique jewelry. I love my job, which allows me to work gold, to embellish it with jewels, to create, based on my drawings, small sculptures set with rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds, thus combining shapes with colors of exuberant and sparkling hues.

My eyes fix on the sign announcing my station, and my mind painfully returns to earth. About fifteen of us noisily descend the iron staircase that leads us to our familiar street, for it takes us home. The sun awaits us outside, enveloped in a clear blue sky. In single file, we pass through the glass door of the exit, and I turn right after several people with hurried steps. My eyes automatically fall on the spot where a young blond man, aged by the war, often stands, floating in his combat jacket, his useless legs wedged on the foot-board of his wheelchair. He is begging for alms that is rarely granted.

But today, he’s not there. In its place, I discover on the sidewalk, a small gray shape that isn't moving. I stop without incident, being the last to exit the subway, and take a closer look. It's a dead pigeon. It's lying on its side, its wings pressed against its slender body, its head bent back. The closed eyelids let through a thin opening, eyes that no longer see. This small iridescent body, graceful and perfect, even in death, lies among the cigarette butts, the garbage... It seems incongruous and inconceivable to me, this desecration of death.

In the space of a few seconds, I am overcome with pity for this little mound of feathers who died alone, without friendship, without compassion, without regret, without any living being having a single thought about him. It's as if he had never existed. There were no witnesses to his life or his death. At least five people passed by his small, inert body before me. Not one of them turned their head, not one of them paid him even a moment's attention. For them, his life means nothing. I am always incredibly surprised by the callousness people have towards animal species. It always pains me enormously, because animals, unlike us, always die alone, and within the indifference of others. Even a vagrant will be treated to a moment of pity when the police officer discovers him dead on a subway vent. But for this bird, his unacknowledged death, invalidated by another life, is pathetic, painful, and undignified.

I'm on the verge of tears, so in my thoughts, I send him my love, my wishes for a more merciful afterlife, and the promise that I won't forget him. He will join all the innocent, dead creatures I've encountered throughout my life, on a street corner, at the side of a road, in a river... in my graveyard of the forgotten.