Ici repose
Dans la paix eternelle
J a q u e s
G e r a u d
1979 - 2005
Toujours Adoré.
Forever Loved. Genevieve knelt down among the petal-strewn grass, the scent of apple
blossom hanging in the still afternoon air. Her pale hair flowed down her back
in golden waves, and to her chest she clutched a single, simple daisy. She
looked over her shoulder at the empty chapel for a moment before she stretched
her long fingers out before her, and traced the deep engraved letters slowly,
muttering silently, greeting the words as old friends.
Her fingers moved across each
curling letter gently, with the reverance of one counting off beads on a
rosary. A small diamond in a silver ring glistened on her finger, and the
tenderness in her face was marred only by the pallor of her skin and the care
lines that wrinkled her brow - tribute to the restless days and sleepless
nights that made up her life now.
After a few moments, she pulled back
and placed the daisy carefully at the foot of the stone. They were simple,
commonplace flowers, but they had always been his favourite. When she had asked
why, he had laughed - that infectious, wonderful laugh - and said that she, as
an artist, should understand why. He said that he loved them because they were
commonplace, because people saw them every day of their lives, and so never
took the time to appreciate how much beauty there was in them. Outside the low,
grey wall a door creaked cheerfully open, and the butcher stepped out of his
shop. Taking off his apron and sitting down on a chair outside the door, he lit
up a cigarette. He took a brief glance at Genevieve, and then his eyes passed
over her as though she was a daisy herself.
She sighed weakly. She had been in
black for nearly a year now, and had spent so many afternoons knelt here, that
perhaps the other villagers really did just think of her as a commonplace
flower - part of the scenery.
As if in answer to her loneliness, the dull chapel bell began to toll. She
shuddered. High above, the sheltering doves fluttered their wings in fright and
alighted from the church tower, passing over Genevieve's head and into the
slowly sinking sun, their feathers streaked with warm, peach-coloured light.
Genevieve's eyes followed them as they faded into small orange dots, then
passed out of sight. She had never been so jealous of anything in her life: to
have the freedom to fly away, and leave behind anything that caused distress or
pain, was something she could only wish for. Doves could fly away from this
village. They could rest wherever they wanted, and nobody looked at them as
though they were just part of the scenery - they were beautiful.
*
* * *
"Madame Geraud?"
Genevieve looked around for the source of the voice, her eyes stinging. It was
somebody who knew her quite well, she knew that much.
Although she and Jaques had never
been married, it was not for lack of intent. They had known each other for 7
years, and had planned to be married in the Summer of this year, since they had
finally saved enough money for the ceremony. Because of their devotion, and
Genevieve's obvious grief, the villagers now called her by his last name - as a
mark of respect.
The sound of footsteps on the
cobbles followed her, and a warm, firm hand rested suddenly on her shoulder.
She turned to see that it was the parish priest, a consoling and understanding
smile on his face, as usual. She made an effort to smile back at him. It was
painful.
"Forgive me for disturbing you,
Madame, but I was wondering if I could ask you a favour."
She nodded. She was not much in the mood for making small talk.
"It is a small thing to ask - and also very big. I notice that we do
not see you painting with your easel any more." He paused here, and
Genevieve had a feeling that he was struggling to word a rude question in the
politest way possible. He squirmed and rubbed his hands together. "I was
wondering if - as you do not paint anymore - I was wondering - maybe - that
madame would... donate her paintings and art supplies to the church."
Genevieve looked into his understanding and apologetic face, and for the
first time in nearly a year, felt a stab of anger. She wanted to punch the
smile off his face.
"You... want my paintings? And
my art supplies?"
The priest mistook her tone and
smiled wider. "Oh, the money we can raise will make so much
difference." He took her hand fervantly and bent to kiss it in joy.
"Madame is too kind!"
Genevieve snatched her hand away, and found power in her voice that she
only half remembered, from a life long before. "No, Madame is not
kind, she's fucking livid." As new colour swept her cheeks, a new
pallor entered his. He looked horrified at her language, and scared at the
sudden change in her face. "All my life I've been kind and polite, and
I've let people take advantage of me for it. When I had Jaques, he stopped
people taking advantage, of treading over me like a flower, but now - even when
I'm grieving - people still take advantage! I won't do it anymore, monsieur.
Fuck you."
She turned and ran down the street,
leaving the horrified priest to lean against the nearby wall in a stupor.
Tears streaming down her red face in
frustration, Genevieve entered the only supermarket in the village and began
throwing things into a basket, pushing past people roughly. She bought herself
some black hair dye, some dark makeup, and new clothes. When the checkout girl
asked her why she was crying, Genevieve glared so venomously that the girl fell
immediately silent and lowered her eyes. She withdrew her savings - those that
had once been meant for a wedding - and packed everything she owned. She would
leave for Paris, as soon as she could. And then? A new life.
As she stood at the window of her
room for the last time, her new, dark hair sparkled in the setting sun, and the
final rays cast warm, peach-coloured light across her determined face.
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