Paris, October 1894. A cold drizzle fell on the shiny cobblestones of the courtyard of the École Militaire. In an austere room with bare walls, a heavy silence reigned. Only the discreet crackle of a cast-iron stove dared to disturb the wait.
Brynjar Øvstegård, a Norwegian-born artillery captain with French citizenship, stood erect, almost frozen, in front of the commander's office. His impeccable uniform contrasted with the inner turmoil he concealed with almost supernatural discipline. He still had no idea that in a few minutes, his life would change.
—Captain Øvstegård, said a deep voice as he entered the room, you are under arrest for high treason against the French Republic.
His breath caught. At first, he thought it was a mistake, a bad joke. But the cold eyes of the man in front of him, Colonel Henry, left no room for doubt.
-I don't understand
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law," the police officer said indifferently.
The clock strikes six. Carmen, still in her dressing gown, sits at the table. She pours water. A dull, dry sound. Three violent knocks at the door. She jumps, spills a little water. She goes to open it, worried.
—yes, she said, opening the door, in a soft but tense voice.
Three men in midnight blue uniforms are there. Three gendarmes flank a plainclothes officer with a hard look. Carmen takes a step back, her instincts frozen.
"Mrs. Øvstegård?" said an officer. He wore a midnight blue uniform like his comrades.
"I am Captain Lamoureux, of the Military Security Service.
Your husband, Captain Brynjar Øvstegård, is under arrest."
A brutal silence fills the room in an instant. The words seem to slide past her without reaching her. She blinks, as if she doesn't understand.
—Excuse me...? You... you're stopping him? For what reason? she said in a low voice.
— On suspicion of high treason. He's been in our hands for an hour.
We have a search warrant. Please let us in, said the other officer.
The two gendarmes advance without waiting for an answer. Carmen mechanically backs away. Her gaze is fixed. She doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She observes. She counts their steps, notes their movements.
"They arrest traitors before dawn, like they arrest assassins...
But he's a soldier. He gave you everything." Even silence, she said in a low voice, almost to herself.
The police search the room. A drawer opens. Papers are seized. Carmen stands straight in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, cold but dignified.
"You know he's innocent.
You know it, you feel it... and yet you obey," she said, looking up at the officer.
"I have no right to question orders," said the officer, briefly lowering his gaze.
Me yes.
She doesn't move anymore. The police leave with a folder of documents, silence on their boots. Carmen closes the door behind them. A minute passes. Two. Then she falls to her knees on the floor. No screams. Just the slow sound of her choking breath.