The messenger looked away from the procession, his heart pounding, caught by the sudden fear that he might see his own face among those of the damned.
He was afraid of his master, but even more of this task. To do as he was bid was, to his mind, tantamount to putting his head in a lion's mouth. He had heard whispers, and he had read the message enclosed with the package. No one, receiving that message, would fail to perceive the insult, least of all a man like Malet.
The two iron‑bound timber doors beneath the arch of the portal swung slowly inward; like the opening of the sluices of a dam, the motion released a flood of the faithful that streamed out from the cathedral.
The messenger took a deep, shaking breath and stared fearfully at the faces and forms that passed him. Twenty minutes later the stream of worshipers had dwindled to nothing, and Malet had not come out. The Place du Parvis was getting cold; he stepped within the cathedral and looked around.
A stoup of holy water was before him. Memory stirred; he dipped his hand, crossed himself, and started up the nave. The tiers of arches, stretching right and left, soaring upward to the high, vaulted ceiling, frightened him. He turned and ducked left, into the close safety of the ambulatory, and came to a trembling halt.
A tall man in a caped black coat was pacing toward him down the passageway. His head was lifted, but his eyes were downcast. He held a good black beaver hat in the crook of his left arm; his right was tucked behind him. His step was slow, pensive, deliberate. A sword clanked softly in a scabbard at his side. The messenger had only seen Chief Inspector Malet once, at a distance, but he had not forgotten.
The messenger darted behind a pillar and watched the man's approach, wondering if he dared step out and stop him. The speculation was cut off as the man paused before a rack of votive candles and gazed down at them with an almost archangelic detachment.
His eyes lifted to the dark windows in the small chapel set beyond the rack. The golden glow of flames threw his face into stark highlight, sparking green glints in the shadowed, brooding eyes, pooling at the corners of the mouth that was held in a straight, grim line, catching and turning to fire the threads of silver that were woven into the thick cap of dark hair.
The eyes lowered again and fastened on the candles. The messenger heard the clink of coins, then a soft clatter as the man set a coin in the offering box and lifted an unlit candle. He touched the wick to one of the many flames before him, waited until the candle was burning, then set it on a wrought iron spike in the rack. He gazed at the candle for a moment, then went to his knees upon the prie-dieu before the rack, set his hat on the kneeler beside him, rested his elbows on the railing, and lowered his head to his folded hands.
The messenger hesitated. If he stepped forward now Malet would not be likely to make a grab for him. They were in a church, after all. But the prospect of disturbing him made him uneasy. It would be like nudging a tiger with his elbow.
He finally cleared his throat. "M. l'Inspecteur," he said.
Malet raised his head. "Yes?' he said.
"I‑I have a message to deliver to you."
Malet's hands were still clasped before him, and he had not looked at the messenger. "A message?"
"Yes - and this," the messenger replied, offering the package.
Malet looked over at the messenger. His eyes encountered the package. "Open it," he said.
"But it's wrapped," the messenger objected.
"Then open the wrappings."
The messenger obeyed, and uncovered a long, wooden box with the name of a wine merchant on it.
"Open the box," said Malet.
The messenger frowned at the lid, located a small brass hook, and unclasped it. He lifted the lid to show a jeroboam of very fine champagne - Chateau Mallebranche. The messenger offered it to Malet.
Malet's expression did not change. "No," he said. "Put it on the floor." When this was done he said, "And what was the message?"
The messenger offered the note.
Malet opened the paper and read it aloud. "'To console you for so resounding a defeat.'" His voice was low and soft in the quiet dimness of the cathedral. The man refolded the note and tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his coat. "This is unsigned," he said. "Does your master have a name?"
"Sir, I‑I may not say."
Malet considered in silence for a long moment. He finally said, "Tell Constant Dracquet that my sword is not broken, and victory in one battle doesn't guarantee victory in the war." He paused, still on his knees, and his voice grew a little less remote. "And as for you, my friend: take care that you don't discover one day that the name of your master is a far more dire one than you originally thought. Good night." He lowered his head once more against his folded hands.
The messenger gazed for a moment, his heart pounding, then turned and hurried down the ambulatory to the doorway and stepped out into the cool night. He turned to look back at the portal of the Last Judgment, his eyes raising fearfully to the line of damned souls.
His heartbeat increased; his gaze flickered from the severe serenity of the judging angel to the contorted, mocking grins of the demons guarding the damned. And the faces of the damned themselves, as twisted with fear and despair as he felt his own soul to be -
He stopped, his breath fluttering to a halt in his throat. But why did they despair? The only thing holding them on the path to Hell were their own hands gripping the chain. If they would only release their hold and open their hands, they would be free. It was their choice -
Choice. His hand rose to his throat. They had a choice, and so had he. He looked back within the cathedral, toward the bank of candles and the man kneeling motionless before them.
Take care that you don't one day discover that the name of your master is a more dire one than you had originally thought.
He drew a deep breath, turned, and walked away from the cathedral. He could choose, and his choice -
His walk became a shaking, shambling run.
** ** **
Malet made his unhurried way past the heavy, iron‑bound timber doors and paced slowly out below the portal of the Last Judgment. The doors closed softly behind him as he passed through them and out onto the Place du Parvis. The bulk of the Prefecture lay before him. Beyond it he could see the spire of the Sainte‑Chappelle, which had once housed the crown of thorns. To the north, just visible beyond it, lay the Conciergerie and the vast complex that was called the Palais de Justice.
Stalemated! Malet had been the colonel commanding the most prestigious regiment of Napoleon's Horse Artillery during the wars. As an artillerist, he knew when his guns had been spiked, and this time they had been spiked with an almost insolent ease. The bottle of champagne, which now was gracing the table of the priests at Notre Dame, was a final, insulting fillip.
He was stymied, he knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it. Constant Dracquet would continue to spin his webs and Paul Malet could do nothing more than nurse his suspicions and send shadows against him for as long as he served as M. le Prefet's substitute. And when that time was past, he would be forced to return to his own arrondissement and watch from a distance as Constant Dracquet pursued his aims unchecked. And he had been so close to success!
Malet raised his eyes to the stars and promised that if he had another chance against Dracquet, he would press it to the very limit and be in on the kill himself.
If only he could have another chance!
It was enough to tax the fortitude of a hero.
VI
INSPECTOR MALET IS GIVEN A WEAPON
Malet arrived at the Prefecture the next morning in a profoundly vicious mood and found Inspector de Saint‑Légère's report awaiting him, forwarded by Chief Inspector Guerin. At Guerin's direction, Saint‑Légère had taken full responsibility for being clumsy enough to drop his weapon at the crucial moment, thus alerting the thugs and nearly spoiling the trap.
Malet read the report, his brows driving together in a scowl. He opened the drawer of
the Prefect's desk, took out a sheet of Police stationery and wrote in a precise, strong hand:
The Prefecture
Paris
10 September, 1833
Alexandre Guerin
Chief Inspector
18th arrondissement
M. Guerin:
I can not feel, as you seem to, that Junior Inspector de Saint‑Légère's action of dropping his firearm in the heat of an engagement, in which he was outnumbered five to one and in fear for his life, is a fault of any magnitude. The success of the operation was due in good part to M. de Saint‑Légère's courage and initiative in volunteering for his part in the investigation. This report must be re‑written and resubmitted without its offensive tone of blame.
Paul V. Malet
Provisional Prefect of Police
Paris
When the report came back the next day, duly rewritten, Malet enclosed it with his own, forwarded it to Count d'Anglars, and promised himself to invite Christien L'Eveque to bring Junior Inspector de Saint‑Légère along with him the next time they dined together. That resolve was relegated to things to do in the near future by the pressure of running the Seine et Oise Prefecture in M. Lamarque's absence.
** ** **
Malet, engaged the next day in writing his daily outline for the Prefecture, was mending a quill pen that had just split when the Chamberlain, Geraud Clerel, rapped twice, opened the door, and then entered and coughed.
He looked up and frowned. "Yes, Clerel?" he said.
"This gentleman wishes to speak to the Prefect on a matter of some urgency," Clerel said. He motioned to someone standing just beyond the doorway, and Charles de Saint‑Légère stepped into the office. His demeanor was deferent, but Malet could sense that the man was very worried about something and, in an odd way, embarrassed to be there.
Inspector Malet's eyes sharpened, but his voice was calm and non‑committal when he spoke. "M. le Prefet has been called away, as you know," he said. "I am acting in his place until his return. Is there a problem, M. de Saint‑Légère?"
Saint‑Légère hesitated as the Chamberlain bowed himself out of the room. "There - there is," he said when Clerel was gone. "I wouldn't ordinarily trouble you, but Christien L'Eveque has spoken so highly of you, and assured me that I could turn to you. I don't know where else to go, and the matter's urgent."
"You flatter me," said Malet. "What is wrong?"
Saint‑Légère drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. "I have been offered a bribe," he said.
Malet's eyebrows drove together for a moment and he set down his pen, but he spoke calmly. "A bribe?" he repeated.
"Yes, sir."
"A bribe to induce you to do what?" Malet asked. His slight accent was fractionally more pronounced.
"To ensure my friendship toward certain people in my precinct," de Saint‑Légère replied.
The notion of anyone thinking it necessary to pay the Law for its friendship had always sparked in Malet a mixture of contempt and amusement. "I see," he said. "Please - sit down." He indicated an elegant, gilded fauteuil upholstered in crimson damask. "And was there anything specific?" he asked when Saint‑Légère was seated.
"Nothing specific, no," Saint‑Légère replied. "It was merely the nature of the gifts and the manner in which they were offered that made me uneasy." He paused and added, "I received the impression that a small lie from me from time to time would be expected."
"There is no such thing as a 'small lie'," Malet said, but he was speaking to himself. He sat back and scowled down at the pile of reports before him. "In what quarter of your arrondissement was this telling of small, friendly lies to be done?"
Saint‑Légère told him, and then watched as Malet frowned off into space, consulting a mental map of the city.
"Hm." Malet said at last. "Hardly a den of crime. A very respectable section, in fact. Who offered this bribe?"
"A certain Constant Dracquet," said Saint‑Légère.
The name made Malet stiffen. Dracquet! Was it possible? He reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat and took out a billfold. "This Constant Dracquet," he said quietly, gazing down at a folded piece of yellowed paper that he had taken out.
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"What is his address?"
Saint‑Légère told him, slightly puzzled by his tone.
Malet caught the sense of puzzlement; it made him tip the edge of a smile. "I have been interested in the doings of a particular M. Dracquet, at that address, for some time," he said. "And you say he openly offered you a bribe? How very interesting."
"No, M. l'Inspecteur." Saint‑Légère spoke flatly.
Malet looked up from studying his steepled fingertips. "I beg your pardon?" he said.
"M. Dracquet didn't openly offer me a bribe, though he made me several gifts that I felt I had to return. He denied any intent to bribe me when I approached him."
Malet's brows lifted fractionally. He said, "Then what is the bribe that you speak of?"
"It's an item of considerable value," Saint‑Légère said. "It was brought to me with this note." he handed Malet a fold of cheap, anonymous paper.
Malet was frowning now. He opened the note and read it aloud:
You have been afoot too long, Major de Saint‑Légère. It is time you were mounted again. But if your sense of honor forbids your accepting this beauty, you need only take him to the Place de la Concorde and tie him to the lamp post closest to the church of La Madeleine.
The note was unsigned and the handwriting obviously altered. Malet folded it again and then looked up at Saint‑Légère. "Nothing ties this to Dracquet," he said.
"Nothing, sir."
"Hm," said Malet. He rose and went to the window, to stand looking out with his arms folded. A crowd was gathering in the street below his window, with a splendid dark bay horse in the very center. Malet loved horses, and this one was worth a second glance. "You refused the bribe, of course," he said after a moment.
It was not a question: Saint‑Légère realized that Chief Inspector Malet had not doubted his honor for a moment. He found it a startling, and very flattering, thought.
"Of course," he replied, smiling.
"Then the matter is closed." Malet said flatly. He was disappointed. It had been so close... "You didn't accept the bribe, nothing illegal has been done, and the office of the Prefect has no reason to intervene."
"Perhaps not, M. l'Inspecteur," said Saint‑Légère. "But this isn't the first time that I have been offered something like a bribe since I started to work in the 18th arrondissement."
Malet stiffened. "Oh?" he asked. He had not turned from the window.
"Yes, sir. I was given all the duties proper to a Police Inspector - admittedly of a junior grade - before I was assigned my present territory. On four separate occasions I was offered handsome gifts of money by various people - "
Malet turned away from the window and scowled at him. "Indeed?" he said.
"Yes, M. l'Inspecteur," Saint‑Légère said. "I was offered money by various shopkeepers and property‑owners in my territory. I declined them - much to their surprise, I fear - and was called in by Chief Inspector Guerin."
"Did he say or do anything that would merit the Prefect's attention?" Malet asked. This lead might do as well as the other.
Saint‑Légère considered. "No, sir," he said at last. "He said that I was to make a note of people who made such offers, note the offers, and bring them to him to handle. I refused to have anything to do with them. I was assigned my current territory four days later."
"I see," said Malet. "And, having refused these gifts, you were sent away to a position of lesser responsibility?"
"Yes, sir." Saint‑Légère considered and then added with some difficulty, as though performing a task he found distasteful, "Though in fairness to Chief Inspector Guerin, I must admit that it is closer to my lodgings."
Malet dismissed the excuse with a flick of his fingertips. "And what, pray, are your new duties?
" he asked.
"Walking a beat, reporting three times a day, writing a report at the end of the day - "
"In essence, then, you were reduced to Junior Constable," Malet said thoughtfully. He turned back toward the window. "And you saw nothing further that would pique your interest?"
"Nothing, sir. Though I did meet M. Dracquet within the past several months. My lodgings aren't far from his house... I don't know, sir. There's something strange about this entire business. Whoever offered the bribe - and I am certain it's Dracquet, even if I can't prove it - he won't let it drop. He's very insistent. I have a feeling... Something important is about to happen - "
Malet's shoulders stiffened. Saint‑Légère was still speaking, but Malet suddenly heard, in his mind, Ensenat's voice saying, Now that he's involved - He thought again, 'Involved - ' in what?
Saint‑Légère was still speaking. " - and he wants to be sure of me. The bribe has been brought to my home several times - "
"And what is this bribe?" Malet asked at last over his shoulder.
"A horse," de Saint‑Légère replied.
"A - horse?" Malet repeated.
"A magnificent horse," Saint‑Légère said. "A valuable horse, a horse to put Pegasus to shame. A horse," he added, "that would earn me a fortune simply by standing at stud. "
Malet turned from the window. "A tall black bay with one white foot. A thoroughbred; probably English."
"Why, yes," de Saint‑Légère said. "How - how did you know?"
"He's tethered right outside. In the care of a guttersnipe. Obstructing traffic and causing quite a snarl."
"What!"
"Outside the Prefecture itself, no less!" Malet said through his teeth, his voice taking on a note of thunder. "Take sanctuary in the Cathedral and they'll stable him in the choir! They certainly are persistent! This touches my honor! What do they think we are? Stupid criminals really infuriate me!" he set his hat squarely on his head, took up his walking stick and started toward the door.
The Orphan's Tale Page 4
