Marcel Lafitte was used to silence, he craved it as others craved communication. But the insistent, demanding silence which now inhabited the room oppressed him. C'est toujours la même chose avec ces gens, he thought, le sexe, l'argent, le mécontentement. "Alors c'est quoi?" he could not hide his irritation, "The problem? Sex? Money? Discontent with yourself?"
Susan stared at him. "The money's fine, the rest is a mess." The priest's lack of social graces was surprisingly encouraging. "I was looking out the window. My husband and yet another other woman. All these voice were chattering around me and suddenly I couldn't understand anything. Nothing real. C'etait pas vrai, you know? So I drank all the booze and walked out."
"You went looking for a nunnery."
Susan shrugged. "I was drunk. I am a drunk. A reformed one, at least until tonight. Three whole years! Trois ans j'ai pas touché la bouteille! Not even a sniff. "
"Alors, what is your next step?"
"I have no fucking idea!" She laughed. "What kind of a priest are you? You're supposed to be telling me what to do next."
"Madame, this collar does not give me wisdom. A gendarme's uniform does not make him obey the law. I have little experience of the life you speak of. And I must retire now, I have an early mass tomorrow. Do you wish me to accompany you back to your friends' house?"
Susan stood up reluctantly, disappointed, like a child being sent to bed. "No, I can manage on my own, Padre. Thank you for your hospitality." She extended a limp hand which the priest shook politely, gravely.
"If I can be of any assistance, you can always find me here or in my church. Bonne nuit, Madame."
Swaying a little, Susan walked out into the warm night, carrying her shoes. The village street was deserted, lit only by the moon.
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