Concerto to the Memory of an Angel Read Free

no one in the village called Monsieur Isidore by his first name, because he wasn’t the type to allow such familiarity. He was taken aback, and absorbed the shock, while his wife, teeth clenched, handed the change to Marie, not daring to say anything: she and her husband would sort things out later.
    Marie Maurestier went out, wishing everyone a good day. Hasty, confused murmurs returned the courtesy.
    In the street she ran into Yvette and her baby. Without greeting the mother, she went straight up to the infant.
    â€œHello my darling, what’s your name?” she asked in a sugary voice.
    At the age of four months, the child obviously could not reply, so Yvette answered for him.
    â€œMarcello.”
    Still snubbing the mother, Marie smiled at the infant as if he were the one who had spoken.
    â€œMarcello? What a pretty name . . . so much more elegant than Marcel.”
    â€œI think so too,” said Yvette approvingly, satisfied.
    â€œHow many brothers and sisters do you have?”
    â€œTwo sisters, three brothers.”
    â€œSo you’re the sixth? Well that’s very good, it’s a good number.”
    â€œOh, is it?” exclaimed Yvette, surprised.
    Without answering her question, Marie continued her conversation with the child: “And why Marcello? Is your daddy Italian?”
    The mother blushed. Everyone in the village knew that Yvette slept around and probably didn’t know the identity of this father any more than any of the previous ones.
    Turning at last to Yvette, Marie gave her a big smile and went into La Galette Dorée. The people in the boulangerie had been listening to her conversation with Yvette, and now they felt embarrassed.
    Could one qualify Marie Maurestier’s behavior just now as kind or malicious? It was impossible to say. When Marie Maurestier expressed an opinion, no one thought she was being sincere: she was pretending. Regardless of what she might be trying to convey through her gestures or her words, what came across, first and foremost, was control: by mastering the slightest flicker of her eyelashes, or modulating her voice with virtuosity, she seemed to be manufacturing compassion, anger, sobs, silences, or agitation. She was a fascinating actress because you could see her acting. With Marie, it was not that artifice was hidden to give an illusion of something natural; on the contrary, artifice confirmed the insincerity of her nature. Marie Maurestier was theatrical and never let herself go; she always preserved her self-awareness. Some people viewed this as proof of her falseness; others saw it as an expression of dignity.
    â€œHalf a baguette, please!”
    No one bought half baguettes anymore except for Marie Maurestier; if anyone dared to try, the young baker became indignant and sent the miser packing. But the day he tried to explain to Marie that he sold an entire baguette or nothing at all, she replied, “Fine. The day you manage to bake a loaf of bread that does not go stale in three hours, I will buy one every other day. Let me know. Until then, I will buy half a baguette.”
    While she was waiting for her change, a tourist could not help but cry out, “Madame, would you be so kind as to give me your autograph in my notebook?”
    Marie scowled, as if she might lose her temper, but then she said very clearly, “Of course.”
    â€œOh thank you, Madame, thank you! I admire you so much, you know. I’ve seen all your programs on the television.”
    Marie gave the woman a look that meant “useless imbecile,” appended her signature, handed back the notebook and left the boulangerie.
    How did Marie Maurestier manage to live with fame that did not dwindle with time? While she may have given the ostensible impression that she bore it as a burden, certain details suggested that she also found it rather amusing; as a notable citizen, she found it perfectly natural to occupy a place of honor at festivals,