In town, I had a glass of white wine at a counter, still thinking back on those things, and told myself that I had seen what I had come to see, even if I still didn’t know what that was; already I was thinking about leaving. I went to the ticket office near the bus station and bought a ticket for the next day, for Marseille; at the train station next door, they sold me a ticket for Paris; the transfer was short, I’d be there by nightfall. Then I returned to my mother’s house. The grounds around the house stretched out calm and still, permeated by the gentle murmuring of pine needles caressed by the sea breeze. The French door to the living room was still open: I approached and called out, but no one answered. Maybe they’re taking a nap, I said to myself. I too felt tired, it was probably the wine and the sun; I walked around the house and climbed the main staircase, without meeting anyone. My room was dark, cool. I lay down and fell asleep. When I woke up the light had changed, it was quite dark: on my doorstep, I saw the two twins, standing side by side, looking at me fixedly with their large round eyes. “What do you want?” I asked. At these words, they stepped back together, and fled. I could hear their little footsteps echoing on the floorboards and then rushing down the main staircase. The front door slammed and it was silent again. I sat up on the edge of the bed and realized I was naked; but I had no memory of getting undressed. My injured fingers hurt and I sucked them distractedly. Then I turned on the lamp switch and, blinking, looked for the time: my watch, on the night table, had stopped. I looked around me but didn’t see my clothes. Where could they have gone? I took some fresh underwear out of my bag and got my uniform out of the closet. My beard rasped a little, but I decided to shave later on, and got dressed. I went down the side stairs. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold. I went out the service entrance: outside, on the sea side, dawn was breaking and was just starting to turn the bottom of the sky pink. Strange that the twins have gotten up so early, I said to myself. Had I slept through dinner, then? I must have been more tired than I thought. My bus left early, I had to get ready. I turned back and closed the door, went up the three steps that led to the living room and came in, groping my way to the French door. In the half-light I stumbled against something soft lying on the rug. This contact froze me. I stepped back to the light switch, put my hand behind me without looking, and turned it on. The light sprang from several lamps, bright, harsh, almost bleak. I looked at the shape I had bumped into: it was a body, as I had instinctively felt, and now I saw that the rug was soaked with blood, that I was walking in a pool of blood that overflowed the rug and spread out on the stone tiles, under the table, up to the French door. Horror and terror threw me into a panicked urge to flee, to hide in some dark place; I made an effort to control myself and drew my sidearm from my holster. I felt around with my finger to unfasten the safety catch. Then I approached the body. I wanted to avoid walking in the blood, but it was impossible. When I was closer I saw—but I knew it already—that it was Moreau, his chest smashed in, his neck nearly cut through, his eyes still open. The axe that I had left in the kitchen was lying in the blood next to the body; this almost black blood soaked his clothes, splattered his slightly tilted face, his graying moustache. I looked around but didn’t see anything. The French door seemed closed. I returned to the kitchen and opened the storage room, but there was no one there. My boots left long trails of blood on the tiled floor: I opened the service door, went out, and wiped them on the grass, while still scrutinizing the back of the park, on the lookout. But there was nothing there. The sky was growing paler, the stars were beginning to disappear. I walked around the house, opened the main door, and went upstairs. My room was empty; the twins’ room also. Still gripping my pistol, I found myself in front of the door to my mother’s room. I stretched my left hand out to the doorknob: my fingers were trembling. I seized it and opened the door. The shutters were closed, it was dark; on the bed I could make out a gray shape. “Mother?” I murmured. Groping my way, aiming my gun, I found the light switch and turned it on. My mother, in a nightgown with a lace collar, was lying across the bed; her feet hung a little off it, one of them still wearing a pink slipper, the other, dangling, was bare. Petrified with horror, I didn’t forget to look behind the door and quickly bend down to check under the bed: aside from the fallen slipper, there was nothing there. Trembling, I went up to her. Her arms were resting on the bedspread, her nightgown, properly pulled down to her feet, wasn’t wrinkled, she didn’t seem to have defended herself. I leaned over and put my ear close to her open mouth: there was no breath. I didn’t dare touch her. Her eyes were bulging and there were red marks on her bare throat. Oh my God, I said to myself, she’s been strangled, someone has strangled my mother. I examined the room. Nothing was overturned, the dresser drawers were all closed, the closets too. I went into the dressing room, it was empty, everything seemed in place; I returned to the bedroom. On the bedspread, on the rug, on her nightgown, I saw then, there were bloodstains: the murderer must first have killed Moreau, then come upstairs. Anguish was suffocating me, I didn’t know what to do. Search the house? Find the twins and interrogate them? Call the police? I didn’t have time, I had to catch my bus. Gently, very gently, I took the foot that was dangling and replaced it on the bed. I should have put the fallen slipper back on, but I didn’t have the courage to touch my mother again. I went out of the room, almost backing out. In my room, I shoved my few things into my bag and left the house, closing the front door. My boots still bore traces of blood, I rinsed them off with a little rainwater in an abandoned basin. I didn’t see any sign of the twins: they must have run away. Anyhow those children were no concern of mine.
