He frowned down at his hands and said, "It's a lifetime's endeavor... The prison permeates everything, unless you learn to look up at something else. But then, having looked up, it's difficult to look down again. And there's always the fear that you might fall back into the filth." He fell silent.
Elise dropped all pretense of casualness and looked straight at him. "My dear M'sieur!" she said. "Did you believe I'd think less of you?"
"It's happened," he said after a moment. "The - the sins of the parents, they say... My past is a matter of public record, anyhow - Everyone knows about it. I - " He broke off with an almost pathetically helpless gesture of his hands.
"But you left the prison and became 'an ordinary mortal', as you call them," Elise pointed out.
Malet raised his eyes to her face. "Do you think so?" he asked quietly. "Look again, Mme. de Clichy: I am not one of them! I protect them: it's what I set out to do years ago, and I don't regret it. But I know as well as you that I am not of the same stamp as them, and I never will be. They know it, too."
"You know, Inspector," Elise said quietly, "Just then you sounded like an eagle trying to apologize for the fact that his wings make it impossible for him to be a mole. Your 'past', such as it is, makes no difference at all to me: I count myself fortunate to have made your acquaintance, and I would like to keep that acquaintance, if you will permit me."
He looked down again and kept his eyes lowered as Marie brought another cup of ale. He raised the cup to his lips with a hand that shook slightly. "The good fortune is mine," he said quietly.
He adroitly changed the subject the next moment by presenting a new letter from Charles, which had come in with the morning's dispatches. Malet always delivered them to her at suppertime.
This letter was a lively and affectionate one, as had been the others. Charles had the ability to write as he spoke. It was as though he were sitting at the table with them, describing the activities in the Bois de Boulogne. He wrote of the people who shared his patrols, and recounted some incidents that had both Elise and Malet laughing. Yvette came over to hear the letter, too, and then Claude, Marie and Alcide as well.
After they had all read the letter and exclaimed over it, he watching her with an expression that made her pause, the subject they had first discussed was long passed, and Elise did not know how to reopen it without giving offense.
And yet she wished to speak of it again, for that glimpse of hurt and vulnerability had touched and softened Elise more than anything he could have said to her. She had suddenly realized that she was beginning to love him.
** ** **
The moon was circled by a faint ring of dark rainbow and half hidden behind a veil of fine clouds. Elise slid from her bed and went to her escritoire. She had set Charles' letter there. It might help to banish this mood. He was skilled in the art of flirtation: most well‑bred men of his age were, but his letters and sallies had the added spice of sincerity.
He had finished by writing of his thoughts concerning the distance between them. She had not shown it to the rest of them. Now she reread the paragraph and smiled.
I think of the miles that separate us, my dearest Elise, and wish that I could somehow take the wings of the swallow that nests beneath my window and fly to you. Were there some way to send a message by him, some way to give you but a part of the happiness I feel when I fill my thoughts with your loveliness and wit, then I would be happy indeed. As it is this letter, poorly phrased though it may be, conveys all my heartfelt regard. Could it but assure me that all is well with you, Elise, then I would indeed rest content.
She chuckled and folded the letter away. Poorly phrased, indeed! His birth and upbringing were obvious in every line. It was a pity, she thought, that she could not love him. And almost exhilarating to think that she had somehow found a way to love again, even though, the prospect of a new love brought back to her, all unwanted, the memory of terrible unhappiness.
The wind was chilly when she opened her windows and looked out over the street. It was as though something were calling to her, awakening all the old longing and grief.
But it had been over seven years! Not all men were like Raoul! Surely she could lay the past aside now and reach again for happinessY
She was too restless to sleep. She had been a fool even to try. Perhaps a cup of tea with warm milk in it. She opened her armoire and took out her pink brocaded wrapper, donning it with the ease of many years of acquaintance, not seeing the fine lace at the neck. She opened her door and stepped out into the hallway.
The inn was silent, except for loud snores from one of the guest rooms. She went softly down the stairs and into the kitchen. It only took a moment to get the stove hot again, and to assemble the makings for a cup of tea.
She had just sat down at the wide, scarred table to sip her tea when the sound of quiet footsteps, moving down the stairs, made her look up.
Malet stood in the doorway, watching her with a slight frown.
"Inspector?" she whispered.
He bowed.
"What are you doing up at this time of the night?" she demanded.
His smile flashed for a moment. "I am going hunting," he said, coming into the kitchen. She saw that he was carrying a sword and a pistol. He came into the kitchen. "Why are you awake, Mme. De Clichy?"
She lifted her eyebrows at him. "This is my inn and I have the right to be here," she said.
Malet's smile grew slightly dry. "So you do," he said with another bow. "But - this is a sincere request - lock the doors after me and don't let anyone else go outside tonight." He saw the puzzlement in her expression. "The hunt is going to be a wide-ranging one," he said. "And the prey can be dangerous. Lock the doors."
She hesitated on the brink of a half-jest, but stopped. "Yes, M. l'Inspecteur," she said. She watched him rise, take up his sword and pistol. "Inspector?"
"Madame?"
She spoke through a throat that was suddenly tight with foreboding. "Please - if the prey is dangerous, then take care for yourself. You have value for many people."
He smiled again, and was out the door.
XVI
DRACQUET REQUESTS AN AUDIENCE
Elise awoke late the next morning and watched the wind chase skeins of clouds across the blue morning sky while she drowsily tried to remember what had happened the night before to worry her. Remembering with a sudden chill of fear, she arose, dressed, and went downstairs.
Yvette and Claude were in the kitchen, talking urgently together. She froze and then went to them. "Is all well?" she asked.
Claude was beaming. "Most well!" he said. "Would you believe it? Those monsters - the killers who-- Well, never mind. They were all caught! All of them! The Police set an ambush, led by Chief Inspector Malet, and got them all!"
"Was-was anyone hurt?" Elise asked.
"Some of those murdering scoundrels were," Yvette said. "But the newspapers report no one else hurt."
"Malet," said Claude. He raised his eyebrows at Elise's expression. "A scratch only," he said.
"That is a scratch too many!" Elise said.
"He was smiling when they spoke with him," Yvette said. "He said he was fine."
Elise considered and then smiled and asked for breakfast. Her smile reassured Claude and Yvette, and the inn hummed into its ordinary routine.
Yvette came to her later that morning while she was spicing the chickens for that night's supper with the news that Constant Dracquet had sent some of his men by.
"It was René Benoit, and he was as offensive as usual," she said. "He's the sort of cad who tries to kiss chambermaids."
"I'd rather deal with him than with his employer. M. Dracquet makes me very nervous. Did Benoit try to kiss you?"
"Not this time," Yvette said. "I gave him something to remember me by the last time he tried two days ago. I think he learned his lesson." She smiled reminiscently. "No, he just said that I was to tell the 'Police Officer' that M. Dracquet wishes to speak with him at eleven o'clock tomorrow
morning at his house."
"A summons!" said Elise. "He's trying the same tactics he tried with Charles."
"It'll be interesting to see how successful he will be," said Yvette. "I suspect that anyone who tries to annoy your 'guardian angel' ends up regretting the effort."
Elise smiled at that. "I suspect you're right, havette," she said. "I know he will be interested in hearing that Benoit came by. We'd best go tell him right away."
Yvette's eyes widened. "To - to the Prefecture?" she asked.
"But of course. We'll make a day of it!"
"But who will take care of the place?" Yvette asked.
"Alcide and Claude," answered Elise. "As well as the rest of the staff. Come on, Yvette. You don't get out often enough!"
Elise bundled her into a pelisse and bonnet and, by main bullying, got her out the door and into a cab.
** ** **
Sergeant Jacques Guillart was a plump man of about forty‑three whose career in the Parisian Police was due to his ability to write a round, clear hand and turn a good phrase. He reviewed the reports submitted, rewrote those with glaring errors in syntax or punctuation, and filed the rest. He supervised a staff of thirty and coordinated all communications between the Prefecture and the various Police and army posts throughout Paris. He also maintained the Police archives for France.
He judged people by their reports. The Prefect, M. Lamarque, for example, wrote a fair hand and had a sober turn of phrase that was quite impressive. Chief Inspector Malet wrote a strong, elegant hand and had a poetic turn of phrase that made Guillart think at once of ballads and the tales told by huntsmen after a successful chase. Inspector Christien L'Eveque, a merry soul, wrote an entertaining report, but was inclined to go into overmuch detail concerning who was standing where and at what time.
Guillart liked and respected these three men. He had nothing but contempt for Constable Archet of the candle‑ends, whose reports were slovenly, illegible and full of pompous phrases. The archives of the Parisian Police did not contain a single original report of Archet's: Guillart had rewritten them all himself. Personally, he thought that Archet would end up in some provincial town as the third‑in‑command, and good riddance to him. After watching the man's feud with Chief Inspector Malet, he decided that that might happen sooner than anyone expected.
He smiled on everyone but Archet, arrived punctually every morning and left punctually every night to return to his plump, charming wife and his family that had grown steadily over the past years. He courted no danger, bowed and scraped to no one, and served as one of those who are indispensable to the smooth running of a great piece of machinery.
Everyone liked Sergeant Guillart, and he liked everyone, himself. But he did have one or two very dear friends, however, aside from his family, and one of them was Chief Inspector Paul V. Malet. At this moment he was standing before the Prefect's desk, smiling down at Malet and offering him a neatly folded napkin.
The Chief Inspector took the napkin, warmly returning the smile - an expression he reserved for a very few people - and opened it to reveal a particularly plump, golden pastry bursting with raisins and walnuts.
"Guillart, this is too generous of your good lady," Malet objected. "Every day I am here she sends in some treat by you, and I have done nothing whatever to deserve it! Surely M. le Prefet isn't treated to this kindness every day!"
Guillart only shook his head. "I will tell Justine what you say, but she will smile and disagree and keep sending these in for you with her best greetings. You may as well resign yourself to your good fortune."
"One can but try," Malet said with an answering smile. "And Guillart - do try to get those reports on Dracquet's supposed family ties with Burgundy."
"Of course," said Guillart. He bowed and withdrew, wiping his fingers and chuckling. The Chief Inspector could never seem to understand what he had done to merit the friendship of the large and clamorous Guillart clan.
Malet had saved Guillart's life in 1830, during the July revolution, but the friendship of the Guillart family predated even that action. It stemmed from something that had happened during Malet's first year in Paris, six years before.
He had come bursting into the Prefecture one day dragging a sobbing child along by the wrist. Due to a sudden emergency, Guillart had been filling in as Officer of the Day, and it was to him that Malet had come.
"She solicited me!" he said through his teeth. "On the Rue de Rivoli, by the Hotel de Ville, no less! Look at her! No more than ten years old if she's a day, and painted like a whore!"
He had released the child, who had collapsed into a chair, sobbing, tears spilling over her garishly rouged cheeks as she rubbed her wrist.
"Do you want to press charges?" Guillart had asked doubtfully. He had heard that Malet was a terror to criminals, but the thought of charging a child was abhorrent to him.
"Against her?" Malet had demanded. "Of course not! Look at her! What crime did she commit? No, the crime is against her!"
Guillart looked at her wrist, which was beginning to bruise. "I think you hurt her," he said.
Malet had been pacing up and down the aisle. He whirled round, looking stricken, and hurried back to her.
"Did I?" he asked. He dropped to one knee beside the chair and examined the wrist. "Dear God! I didn't mean to! I am sorry, child! But - but her damned pimp came up to her and tried to hustle her away, muttering something about 'taking a hit' later on! The snake!"
He got to his feet, almost sputtering with anger. "Pimping for a child! You should hear the filth he taught her to spout to a prospective customer! It turned my stomach! I hate all pimps, but those who prey on children - " He was pacing again.
"What did you do?" asked Sergeant Guillart.
"Do? I decked him and got her away," Malet said through his teeth, "He won't be breathing very well for the next few months! He sent about ten of his slimy associates after us, too! They caught up with us on the Pont d'Arcole!"
"Did they know who you were?" Guillart asked.
"They do now!" Malet answered. "I told them. They seemed impressed, though it may have been my sword at their leader's throat. I suggested that they leave, and they did."
He frowned down at the girl, who was staring up at him as though he were a cross between Prince Charming and Michael the Archangel. "How old are you?" he asked after a moment. His voice was gentler.
"N‑nine this week," the girl had answered. Her voice was high and clear.
"See?" Malet said. "Open your mouth, girl. Look, Guillart: she still has some baby teeth!" He took out his handkerchief and held it before her. "Here: spit on this!" he commanded, and then scrubbed at her face with it after she had.
"Look!" he said, handing her the handkerchief, which she furtively tucked away in the ragged bosom of her dress. "She's pretty under all this paint! What sort of foul scum would even think - How long have you been doing this, girl?"
She began to cry again. "Three weeks, M'sieur."
"Three weeks?" Guillart had repeated. "Well. What is your name, poppet?"
"J‑Julie."
"Do you have any family, Julie?" Guillart had persisted.
"No, M'sieur."
"Do you want to go back to the streets?" Malet had asked.
She threw herself into his arms, sobbing wildly.
Malet's blank expression made Guillart laugh. He was holding the weeping, clinging child with all the tender solicitude with which one might handle a watermelon.
"What a question, Inspector!" Guillart chided him. "Of course she doesn't. Poor sweetheart, it must have been terrible for you. You don't ever have to go back. I know a home for you. Take my handkerchief and don't cry. You can hold my hand."
He looked up at Malet, who had set her in a chair and was frowning thoughtfully down at the girl's lowered head. "Sir? Did you have any plans for placing her? If not, I know where she can go."
Malet had shaken his head. "Thank you, Sergeant," he had said, bestowed a brief - and, in all, very gentl
e - smile on the girl, and left.
And that is how Julie had come to be adopted by the Guillart family.
Mme. Guillart, a country woman from Provence, where Guillart had been posted as a foot soldier, had never forgotten. The Chief Inspector had been stunned eight months later when Mme. Guillart asked him to be her newest baby's godfather, and he had been rendered speechless by the news that little Pauline Guillart was to be his namesake.
Julie, now a pretty girl of fifteen, regarded him as a sort of angel. It was she who had baked the pastries this week, and she had personally selected the best, plumpest one for 'M'sieur' this day.
** ** **
Sergeant Guillart made his unhurried way back to his desk, smiling, but wondering nevertheless why Inspector Malet was so subdued this day. The fact that he had spent the night chasing murderers did not explain it, since the man seemed to thrive on very little sleep. But he wasn't worried: Malet seemed puzzled rather than disturbed.
He returned to his desk with a smile. When he got there he found the Officer of the Day chatting with two women, a brunette with dark, lively eyes, and a taller, chastely bonneted one with a demurely downcast face but very curious, bright blue eyes.
"M. le Sergeant, these two ladies are asking to speak with the Chief Inspector," said the Officer of the Day. "They say it's an important matter regarding one of his cases."
Guillart stepped forward, smiling. "Welcome, ladies," he said. "M. Malet is here: may I announce you?"
The dark woman said, "I am Elise de Clichy, and this is Yvette Franchotte. M. Malet is presently staying at our inn - "
"The Rose d'Or!" said Guillart as he bowed over their hands. "Of course! He spoke very highly of the place, especially your English ale and your veal. I am very happy to meet you! Jacques Guillart at your service. Please follow me! M. Malet will be delighted to receive you!"
The Orphan's Tale Page 10
