Free The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor

walls papered with the same wilted floral pattern, from floor to ceiling and everywhere in between, there were statuettes of all shapes and sizes that seemed to be watching the three visitors with searching eyes. In the few unoccupied gaps on the shelves, childlike drawings, framed under glass, had been fixed to the wall. They all had the same subject: Mary, in all her forms, all her representations, was ever-present and celebrated.
    One picture in particular caught Gombrowicz’s attention, perhaps because the drawing was more imposing than the others,or because it was the only one in color, or perhaps because it had been hung opposite the bed. It was a Virgin Mary wearing a crown, her skin deathly pale, surrounded by red and blue angels, holding a ruddy, chubby-cheeked baby Jesus on her left knee. There was something chillingly erotic about the drawing, not just because of the Virgin’s beautiful face, but because her left breast was protruding from her bodice, and that breast, rounded, full and extremely pale, drew the eye more than anything else in the drawing.
    “Beautiful, isn’t she? It’s a fifteenth-century French painting. I had to go all the way to Antwerp to see it. It took me three days to reproduce it. Remember, Mom?”
    Without looking away from the drawing, Gombrowicz gave a whistle of admiration. “Did you do this? And all the other things on the wall?”
    In a voice that was suddenly more confident, the young man’s mother answered instead of him. “Thibault’s drawings are extraordinary, inspector. He’s working toward getting into the École des Beaux-Arts.”
    “Mom!”
    “You’ll get into the Beaux-Arts, my son, I’m sure of it. And through your art you’ll celebrate faith in Mary and Jesus Christ.”
    Landard, who’d already opened the only cupboard in the room and was in the process of emptying its drawers, suddenly pulled out a stack of sketches and waved them over his head. “What about these, Thibault? Are they also for the Beaux-Arts?”
    He laid out the sheets of paper on the bed one by one, and his suspect’s face gradually dropped as he lined up a series of pornographic sketches featuring a Virgin Mary with full lips, her dress pulled up, wearing fishnet tights and stilettos, and spreading her legs to reveal her most intimate parts.
    “If you don’t mind, Thibault, I’m putting these in my favoriteorder. Is that all right? Ladies and gentlemen, look here carefully. The first masterpiece produced by our friend Thibault in anticipation of his admission to the Beaux-Arts Academy: The Virgin gently masturbates and finally reaches ecstasy. Very beautiful, very pure. Still, there’s a soupçon of Saint Theresa about it. Be careful about getting your saints mixed up, Thibault, otherwise, there’s no Beaux-Arts this year. Second masterpiece in anticipation of Thibault’s admission into the Beaux-Arts: In order to preserve her precious virginity, naughty Mary pleasures herself in the behind with the help of a ... a ... What is it you’ve stuck up your Virgin Mary’s ass, Thibault? Gombrowicz? Your opinion? Madame? Any idea? Never mind. Let’s proceed with the visit.”
    Claire Kauffmann was increasingly uncomfortable as the grotesque exhibition went on. She was slightly dizzy and felt the blood draining from her head. Was it the lack of air in this hermetically sealed room? Was it the obviously sadistic pleasure Landard took in humiliating his suspect? Was it the mask of shame Thibault wore on his face? His mother’s severe expression? Or did the obscene sketches drawn by this libidinous teenager propel her back to memories that were older, more painful, more personal?
    Gombrowicz, who had laughed at the first drawing, was not laughing anymore. A vaguely complicit smile had lasted for a moment but now it had vanished, and his sad, uneasy eyes were now darting from his boss to the sketches, then from the sketches to his boss.
    Still, Landard carried on with a glee he was not