Le coup frappé à ma porte
The day after the funeral, someone beat violently.
Two policemen were standing in front of me. Next to them, one of Mrs. Lefèvre’s daughters.
“You were taking care of her? »
“Yes. »
The girl pointed my finger at me.
“She stole my mother’s diamond necklace. »
I thought I heard badly.
They searched my house, opening the drawers and moving the cushions.
Then one of them opened my purse, the one I had brought to the funeral.
Inside, in a small velvet pouch, a necklace.
I had never seen him.
« Ce n’est pas à moi », ai-je répété.
Mais il était là.
On m’a emmenée au commissariat pour un interrogatoire.
