Sylvain winces. He stops staring at Nora, who is now only a silhouette in the distance, about to be swallowed up by the crowd, and turns to the police investigator, who invites him to follow her. Her expression is filled with compassion. He complies, looking haggard, already knowing that whatever he is about to find out will cast him once again into the depths of horror.
Gradually the street empties. Tiphaine’s body is taken away. The police leave the scene of the crime. The neighbors disperse in clusters, anonymous figures returning to the comfort of their humdrum lives. Calm returns to this peaceful street in a residential neighborhood lined with family houses; havens of tranquility where people return in the evening after a day at work or school. A good place to live. Not much traffic, quiet, uneventful. A place of safety.
Milo and Sylvain are alone now, drowning in the silence of the house. Stunned by what has happened. Milo is lying curled up on the sofa staring at an imaginary point in front of him. Sylvain is standing at the window that looks out onto the yard. Probing the darkness outside, eaten up with misery and bewilderment. His eyes skim the shadows of the night, he stares at the outlines of the trees and the bushes, follows the indentations of leaves faintly lit up by a ray of moonlight. He has no idea that at the bottom of the garden, behind the row of bushes, Gérard Depardieu’s corpse is slowly decomposing beneath a pile of compost.
“I’m cold,” says Milo suddenly. He gets to his feet and takes a few steps toward the entryway.
“Where are you going?” asks Sylvain in a tight voice.
“To fetch a sweater.”
“Let me, I’ll go.”
Milo doesn’t need persuading. He slumps back on the sofa and curls up in a fetal position, and it is Sylvain who goes up to the young man’s bedroom.
