The Green Door
Fiction; Selection II, Of The Curation
Jean Claude Chopard was a good man; anyone who knew him would tell you so. They would also tell you that he was a man of great patience and honor because his life reflected those qualities.
In everything he did his life was controlled and in moderation, all except his love for his lovely young wife Mireille.
In that arena, his passion, energy, and joie de vivre knew no limits. One might even say he was a slightly jealous man since she was the crown that made him king and the gem that made his life beautiful above all other things.
It was the end of a long sweltering day in early August in Chopard’s small jewelry boutique on the Rue De Rivoli in Paris.
It was also the day of their fifth anniversary, as well as his wife's twenty-sixth birthday so a celebration was in order.
At five o’clock in the afternoon, they pulled the shades to the windows and locked the rustic green front doors to the shop, put up the closed sign, and retired to their living quarters behind the store, the side of which ran adjacent to a short street cutting through the center of the block.
They planned to eat a leisurely dinner which had been prepared by Mireille throughout the day, along with an extra fine bottle of vintage red wine. The table was carefully set by her with their best white-rose linen lace, tablecloth, heirloom silver, porcelain china, crystal stemware, and fresh flowers. It was a well-planned celebration.
Romantic symphony music from their Victrola played in the background as they sat down to a sumptuous meal of steamed mussels, a salad Nicoise, grilled lamb chops, Provencal vegetable soup, leeks with Dijon vinaigrette, and for dessert, a perfect almond pear clafouti.
They toasted, laughed, touched hands, and danced as they celebrated five years of bliss. Jean Claude felt himself a lucky man, after all, he was twenty years her senior and to have a woman as young and as vivacious as she was most fortunate.
They set aside the dishes after the meal for the next day and strolled in the warm night air under the Paris sky to the Café de Fous to enjoy a well-made absinthe as was the custom for such a day. Returning home very late, with the last of the celebration remaining; to make love.
That they did with great energy and passion, under the full moon of that evening which shone through the sheer curtains of their bedroom window adjacent to the street and into their bedroom. Relaxed from the absinthe and exhausted from the arduous love making Jean Claude and Mireille laid back on their bed uncovered in each other's arms.
It was at that moment that through his partially open eyes and somewhat foggy brain, Jean Claude caught a sparkling bit of moonlight reflecting off of something shiny outside the bedroom window.
As he squinted and looked more closely he saw the silhouette of a man in a top hat and cape peering in at them, the light that had caught his eye was from the brightly polished handle of the man’s cane.
Had Jean Claude not been in such a stupor and so tired it would have angered him greatly, he would have jumped up and challenged the stranger. But now, at this time and with the light so low in the room and the window safely locked it did not seem of great importance to him.
So what if the voyeur peering in the window caught a glimpse of a buttock or even a breast? He would simply be more careful and pull the heavy drapes closed from now on, and so they slept.
The following day was Sunday, it was a welcome day off since the celebration of the night before had left both overly tired.
They slept well into the morning and had a light breakfast. In the afternoon they walked holding hands to the park near the river and back, relaxing in preparation for the next day’s business. As they did so Jean Claude brought up the subject of the voyeur in the window.
“Mireille,” he asked quietly, “Did you see the man watching us through the window last night as we made love.”
“A man, what man?”
“A man was looking in our window last night while we made love,” he replied.
“No I did not,” she said, “There was a man in the window? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I did not see him until after we were finished and laying in each other's arms, you were sound asleep my love and I saw no reason to ruin such a beautiful evening.”
“Do you think he saw me naked, and us making love?”
“I can only assume so, does that upset you?”
“No,” she said nonchalantly, “What do I care if some perverted voyeur saw me naked? As far as I’m concerned he was a lucky man.”
“Exactly, that is what I thought,” Jean Claude said with a slight pause, “He was a very lucky man.”
The conversation ended there, and though Jean Claude may have said it did not matter, in his heart he wondered at the blasé comment by his wife regarding the situation. It was not what he expected.
As usual, Monday morning at nine the Chopard’s opened the store to a rather slow morning’s business. Mireille watched the sales area out front and rearranged the merchandise in the display cases as Jean Claude repaired jewelry and attended to business details in the back.
At about one fifteen the brass bell on the green door rang and a well-dressed gentleman entered. Jean Claude took no initial notice since his wife was quite capable of handling the customers.
In a few minutes, he stepped through the door to the front to get a small tool which he had left, and saw the gentleman who was being waited on by his wife.
The man was tall, middle-aged, and of pleasant looks and means.
His silk top hat, costly wool cape, and boots along with the gold jewelry he wore made that obvious. She was showing him an expensive antique gold bracelet they had taken in trade. The gentleman spoke very softly to Mireille about it and his speech, at least what little Jean Claude could hear was eloquent and educated.
“Would you please try the bracelet on for me Madame Chopard so I can see how it looks on a lady’s wrist?” he asked. “Oh my, it is beautiful,” he said as he lightly touched her fingertips, and then satisfied, immediately purchased the piece.
Nothing more was thought about the stranger, though every Monday, approximately at one fifteen, for at least six or seven weeks the gentleman, now known as Monsieur, Robert Gallet came to the store, was waited on by Jean Claude’s wife, and would buy another expensive piece of ladies jewelry, much to the pleasure of both the Chopard’s.
On a bright sunny day out of nowhere, a thought crossed Jean Claude’s mind. He tried to reject the recurring appearance in his mind to no avail. What caused the thought that should not have entered into his mind but did, was the sun coming in the window and reflecting off the handle of Monsieur Gallet’s silver-handled cane which he used to assist his slight limp. The thought which Jean Claude tried to remove from his head was that the new customer,
the stranger who had since enhanced their income so nicely, who as a pleasant conversationalist was now on a first-name basis with both he and his wife, was the same voyeur who stood in the window and watched them cavort naked on the hot August night they made love.
As Jean Claude considered that, he also noticed that Monsieur Gallet was never over-attentive to his wife nor did he ever see anything inappropriate between them. He was courteous, well-mannered as a gentleman should be, and certainly pleasant to have around.
Added to that, Gallet also was an avid chess player and he and Jean Claude had even begun to play chess once a week for a few hours on Friday night after dinner over a bottle of good wine. Jean Claude decided that he had no reason to suspect anything, nor did he. If there was anything in the world he was sure of it was his wife’s love for him and her fidelity.
As time passed, still more increasingly the occasional image of the man at the window nagged him with the same question springing forth in his mind, was he the man?
It was that sparkling silver-handled cane that plagued him most. Every time he saw it, and the more often he saw the light cascade off its well-polished handle, the more he wondered.
Monsieur Gallet continued to come into the shop and buy more and more expensive ladies' jewelry from them, each time asking his wife to try on the jewelry for him as he so aptly pointed out, “So that he could see what it looked like on a lady,” and as he did, other well to do friends of his, both ladies and gentlemen of wealth came to buy from their little boutique.
It was a stroke of good fortune for the Chopard, and Jean Claude knew it should make him feel better.
After all, he now was able to make some small investments and even had a few francs left over in the bank at the end of the month, which made Mireille very happy. But no matter how he tried it did not make him feel better.
His resentment of Monsieur Gallet grew within him day by day as the months passed. It grew from a mild suspicion to a dislike and then to an almost seething irrational private anger that was interfering with his business and more importantly his relationship with Mireille.
He did not blame her, she had done nothing wrong, but still, the nagging question remained showing in his increasingly abrupt speech and general treatment toward her. Short bursts of contempt seemed to come out of his mouth for seemingly no reason at all, she would cry, he would feel bad and apologize, then curse himself and drink late into the night.
Then upon going to bed, the silhouette, the dark silhouette that had been in the window was all he could see as he closed his eyes to sleep, often, way too often it was in his dreams. How silly he thought that his mind would be overtaken by this vision of an event that happened only once.
It was a bitterly cold night in November; a Friday to be exact, that Jean Claude decided the self-torture must end for his sake, and that of the marriage. He had to know.
He and Monsieur Gallet came home after a stop at the Café de Fous for a few drinks of the deceptively strong mint-green Absinthe.
As usual, he, his wife, and Monsieur Gallet shared a meal of portage and a light entree before the chess match began. It was a contentious series of games and became more so as the evening wore on and they drank more heavily.
The very benevolent Mrs. Chopard had left to spend the night with an ailing friend. Jean Claude and Monsieur Gallet stared seriously across the table at each other as they played, and after a series of fine maneuvers, Jean Claude had cornered Monsieur Gallet’s King and announced loudly and with much pride.
“Checkmate, you fool!”
“And so it is, but why Jean, do you call me a fool?”
“It was you, was it not?
“It was me? What are you talking about?”
“It was you, the shadowed man peering in the window last August when my wife and I made love.”
“Nonsense my good friend, it was not me, you have had too much wine to drink.
“It was you, j’accuse!”
“You are mistaken Jean, and you have insulted me, maybe I should go now.”
“Oh yes, of course, leave Robert, run away from my accusation like the cowardly voyeur you are. I know it was you, you scoundrel!” The absinthe and wine had uncloaked his anger, the jealousy within, driving him beyond reason as he stood in rage, his fists tightly clenched.
“Admit it damn it! Tell the truth!” He yelled.
Monsieur Gallet denied the accusation trying to defuse the situation but the more he denied it, the more the anger rose within Jean Claude.
“I know nothing of what you speak Jean. As you well know I live on an estate far out in the country, and only come into Paris on weekdays for business, never on the weekend. Furthermore, I am a gentleman of great and good reputation with a family of my own, and certainly not interested in the type of tasteless thrill of which you accuse me.”
“Oh sure, of great reputation, blah, blah, blah, I saw you in the window Robert. You, your top hat, and that… that damn silver cane you carry,” Jean Claude said.
“My cane,” what are you babbling about?”
Jean Claude intoxicated weaved his way over to the rack where Monsieur Gallet had hung his coat and hat, and from the umbrella stand alongside, withdrew Gallet’s cane.
“This cane Robert,” he said as he held the cane up in the air as if it was a prize. “This was your mistake; this was the clue that proves that it was you in the window, how stupid of you.”
“It proves nothing Jean, you…you have gone mad, now give me my cane and I will be on my way,” Monsieur Gallet said.
Jean Claude’s eyes were those of a madman and in his fit of jealous rage, he screamed. “Yes, you can have your cursed cane, and I will give it to you!” Moving forward he struck Monsieur Gallet on the temple with such. force that he could hear the bones splinter as his victim crumpled to the ground and lay motionless.
A sardonic smile covered his face as he held the cane high for a moment considering another strike at the man he had come to hate. But there was no need, for as he knelt and looked into Gallet’s eyes and lowered his head to his chest, listening for a heartbeat, there was none. Monsieur Gallet was dead.
Jean Claude panicked in the horror of the moment and a sudden feeling of sickness set quickly in the pit of his stomach as he realized what he had done. He fell back on the couch and lay still with a profuse cold sweat soaking his body, and an even greater chill sweeping over his soul, and then all went black.
When he awoke it was three in the morning. He had hoped it was all just a dream. But as his eyes opened the body of Monsieur Gallet lay on the floor. His head in a small pool of blood from the wound to his skull was the first thing he saw, and though his mind was still cloudy, he began to think, the more he thought the more he could come to only one conclusion.
He was no longer a good man, a man of honor, of principle. The shame was more than his soul could bear. The body of Jean Claude Chopard was found the next morning floating in the frigid water of the Seine not far from the Pont d’Arcole, the dead body of his friend Monsieur Gallet in Jean Claude’s home that same morning. The Paris authorities after a lengthy, but proper investigation, based on the suicide note left behind by Jean closed the case as a murder-suicide.
And so, as time passed the Chopard Jewelry Boutique with its new and wealthy clientele continued to flourish under the careful eye of Mireille Chopard. It was upscaled and redecorated with new paint and dark blue rich velvet draperies, new display cases, and a new leaded crystal glass door, painted a deep forest green.
On a rainy day in June of the next year, the brass bell on the green door rang, a young man in his mid-twenties came into the store waiting patiently with hat in hand as Madame Chopard finished with a customer.
After she had finished and shown the lady out she calmly turned the closed sign to the street, pulled down the shade on the door, locked it, and motioned for him to follow her to the back room out of sight.
“Frederic, what are you doing here?” she asked. He did not have a chance to answer. “I told you not to come here until I sent for you and it was safe.”
“I had to see you, my love, I miss you,” he said.
“Yes, and I miss you too, but you are putting us at great risk by coming here. What if you are seen and arouse suspicion and the police reopen the case, what then?
“Mireille my darling, I am sure it is okay,” he said.
“It is not okay. Inspector Duvall the lead inspector of the case still comes by occasionally under the guise of saying hello, but I can tell he is suspicious and not satisfied that all is right with the case. If he should see you he might become suspicious and open the investigation again. Do you want that?”
“No, no of course not I just thought…”
She interrupted him. “No, you did not think Frederic.” She paused for a moment then rushed forward with tears in her eyes embracing him. “Oh Frederic, I love you so very much, you know that don’t you?” she said. It’s just that it is still so dangerous for us now. All our planning all our work could be gone in an instant if suspicions are aroused.”
“Yes, Mireille, I know you love me and you are right, I was foolish to come here.”
They kissed in a passionate embrace as a promise of things to come. “You must go now,” she said, “and quickly. Leave through the door that leads to the alley.”
As he left there was a quick kiss and a wave. “Do not worry, I will contact you when it is safe,” she said, as he disappeared into the rainy night.
The spring passed quickly. Soon it was August and with Mireille’s birthday approaching a celebration was in order.
The brass bell on the green door rang at closing time and an attractive woman entered, locking the door behind her, she pulled the drapes and walked to the living quarters in the back.
Mireille was not surprised when the woman entered the kitchen where she was heating water for tea.
“Well, then you are my Simone,” she said, “I am so happy to see you.”
“I told you we would celebrate on your birthday and here I am. By the way, the new look of the store is very nice.”
“Would you like a cup of hot tea Simone?” Mireille asked. “And did you like the green door? It is the color you picked.
“Yes, it is lovely, and thanks, but no to the tea my dear, not right now, I bought you a little something for your birthday and I wish to see if you like it.”
“You brought me a present? Oh how wonderful,” she said.
Simone handed her an exquisitely wrapped gift from one of the best ladies’ boutiques in all of Paris.
“It is so pretty I hate to unwrap it,” she said smiling, moving more quickly to do so. Untying the red silk ribbons she lifted the lid to the box and reaching through the layers of tissue paper on top removed a soft, sheer, silk summer sleeping gown. She held it up to the light.
“Oh Simone, is it elegant, look you can see right through it,” She said, “It will be wonderful on these hot summer nights, let me go try it on.
Mireille went to her dressing room and left the door open so they could chat.
“So everything is going okay then?” Simone asked.
“Oh, yes going just as expected.”
“Good, very good,” said Simone.
“Oh, by the way, Gallet’s nephew Frederic foolishly dropped by today to declare his love for me, but I sent him quickly on his way and told him that I would get in touch with him when it was safe. He did just as I asked, as you say he is a useful idiot.”
“My mother always told me that a smart woman can get a man to do anything she wants him to do,” Simone replied.
“Your mother was right. I knew my husband well. All I had to do after the window incident which Frederic obliged us with was feed my fool husband innuendos regarding how wonderful I thought Monsieur Gallet was, and how interesting and smart and rich he was.
Most importantly I told him Gallet brushed my breast with the back of his hand as he was looking at a gold necklace I was trying on, although I told him it must have been an accident. His insane jealousy took over and did the rest. The same with Frederic, he did all I asked.”
“Well, then the inheritance he received from his Uncle’s will has been transferred to the third-party business account we agreed upon?” said Simone.
“Yes, I told him it was to avoid suspicion, and it was easier than I expected to get him to do so. All was transferred but the money he needs to live on until we are together.”
Mireille appeared from the dressing room with a big smile, dancing around and showing off the gown. She was not surprised to see Simone no longer dressed.
“How does it look?” she said as she twirled around and then stood in front of Simone.”
“You are beautiful my dear, just beautiful.”
“Why are men so foolish?” she asked Simone.
“They are desperate to be loved my dear, just as you and I.”
Yes, I guess so,” said Mireille as their bodies touched and their lips met.
The strangled, nude body of Mireille Chopard was discovered lying on her bed the next day by the police after a patron alerted them that the boutique had not opened as usual. Her assailant was never found, and the crime was considered a random act of violence committed in the act of robbery since much of the most expensive jewelry from the store had been stolen.
Many months later in the spring of the next year when the blossoms on the cherry and pear trees were in full bloom and the boulevards filled with people, an exclusive haute couture woman’s bridal dress shop named Simone’s of Paris opened its doors on the Fontainebleau.
As the new customers, the elite of Paris society, walked through the green door, the brass bell tinkled they were then greeted personally by Madame Simone and her dashing new husband, not long to be with us, financier Frederic Gallet, the useful idiot.
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