The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  Malet understood that now, and he wondered once again at the chance that had brought Joseph Young to him at a time when he was lost and alone in the middle of a crowd of criminals, a little piece of spindrift blowing before the winds of his life.

  He was sitting back against the luxurious upholstery of Count d'Anglars' carriage, gazing out through the window and up into the silent night sky. He was watching Orion rise higher. He was tired and stiff from his night of flight, but worse than any physical pain was the knowledge that he had spoiled his own plans and made a fool of himself before two‑thirds of the upper crust of Paris. What had he gained from the past night? Precisely nothing, aside from the humiliation of being deservedly called upon the carpet! He was no closer to catching Dracquet than before, and he might as well have saved his time and trouble.

  Batten to the things that never change, Pippin, Joseph Young had said, The stars, the moon, the sun, the sea, the earth itself...

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushioned backrest of the carriage. "Oh Papa," he sighed. "Did you ever know times like this?"

  The stars glittered beyond the carriage window, bright, silent and monumentally calm, in sublime contrast to the turmoil and chagrin in his heart.

  He drew a deep breath and expelled it. You live and learn, and no matter how old or wise or strong you are, it's best to remember that you're never too old or wise or strong to be taken by surprise.

  Someone had tried to kill him. No surprise, that: he had been expecting it. He had, after all, set the trap knowing that he would be the target for an assassination attempt. But, that to the side, he had resolved years before to give his life if necessary in the service of society, and he had not renounced that resolve.

  But society had never stepped in to save his life before.

  The carriage halted before the Rose d'Or. The postilion opened the door and lowered the step, and then stood aside. "Have a pleasant evening, Inspector!" he said.

  Malet nodded to him and wished him the same, then drew a deep breath and turned toward the inn as the coach pulled away.

  Someone had saved his life, he thought again. Who could have done it? Why had he done it? Could it have been a mistake?

  He remembered the blow to the back of his knees just at the moment that the gun went off, while he had been standing wide open and exposed, gaping down at Paris like a bumpkin. That had been a deliberate knock‑down, or Paul Malet had not spent his childhood in a prison learning all the dirty tricks used in a brawl!

  Who had saved him, then? The body that had landed atop him and scrambled off had been small: a child? But who could it have been? Aside from his two godchildren, what child had he dealt with recently?

  He frowned, remembering furious gray eyes, a mouth like a sewer, and a lithe little body twisting in his grip and swearing at him. The child who had been holding that horse. Suddenly an idea came to him: he was the stone‑thrower.

  His attention, inward and outward, was so captured by this thought, and he was still so wearied and humiliated by the events of the past night, that he didn't give his surroundings the sort of attention that he usually did. If he had, he might have seen a sudden shifting of shadows halfway down the street as a small, ragged child shrank back into a dark gateway and peered out at him.

  Malet drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went toward the kitchen door, still caught by his mood of half‑awed speculation:

  ...The stone‑thrower...?

  LII

  LAROUCHE TURNS INFORMER

  Larouche watched Monseigneur go toward the doorway of the inn. He came farther out onto the street and craned his neck as the kitchen door opened to spill golden light across the courtyard.

  He pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. So Monseigneur was alive...

  ** ** **

  Larouche had thought he had saved Monseigneur once and for all. He had been horrified to learn, just before he left Dracquet's house, that Pierre le Noir was still unaccounted for. He had heard Dracquet say, "The finest killer in Europe! He'd better make sure of him - or I will make certain he regrets it!"

  Larouche had flattened himself against the wall behind the door to the kitchen, horrified and vaguely sick. The chase was still on, then. Monseigneur was still in danger.

  Larouche had left for the stable that was housing him at the moment, but though he had burrowed into fragrant, warm hay and listened to the horses in the stalls below him, he had not been able to sleep. He kept remembering the moment he had realized that Monseigneur's heart could ache, too, and he wished that he had gone to him as he had wanted to. Now he might be wounded, or even dead, and there was nothing Larouche could do to help him.

  Dracquet was a murderer! Larouche had known that he was a liar and a crook, but murder was another matter entirely! To cap matters, he had tried to murder one of Larouche's particular people. Larouche would make him pay quite a reckoning for that!

  But in the meantime he couldn't stop worrying about Monseigneur. He pictured hundreds of ways the man might have taken in fleeing his attackers, and hundreds of ways his attackers might kill him. In the end, he had tried to do as Père Louis had once told him: say a prayer and leave it with God. It had been very hard; he had cried himself to sleep.

  He awoke the next morning with his mind made up. Dracquet must be made to pay dearly for his actions, and Larouche had an idea for a way of doing that, but first he had to find out if Monseigneur were alive...

  ** ** **

  He had gone to the Prefecture the next day. That would be the first place Monseigneur Inspector would go if he were unhurt or only slightly injured. He might not arrive until late in the day, Larouche knew, since cops sometimes had to talk to the Head Cop, or even the King, and he thought if someone tried to kill Monseigneur, then Malet, who was sitting in for the Head Cop, would want to know of it. But though Larouche remained there all day, he saw no sign of the man at all.

  He had to know if Monseigneur was safe! He hesitated, wondering what to do, when he saw an officer of some seniority leaving the Prefecture, a pleasant‑faced fellow. Larouche went up to the man and asked if an Inspector had been killed the night before, as he had heard.

  The man had looked thoughtfully down at him while he motioned to a fiacre, but he had answered evenly enough. "No, son. We have had no deaths on the Force in the last day, thank God!" He had added, "And what do you know of it, my lad?"

  "Nothing," Larouche had said. "I just heard some talk..."

  The man had looked as though he wanted to ask a few more questions, but Larouche turned and scurried off, and the man had entered the fiacre and ridden off. Larouche, listening from a doorway, heard him command that he be taken to the Place de la Bastille.

  He had stepped back onto the street after the man left and stood gazing after him with his back to the Sainte Chapelle. No deaths, eh? That was good to hear, but it didn't rule out Monseigneur being badly wounded. Where would he go if he were hurt?

  After some thought, Larouche went to the inn where he had first waylaid Monseigneur. He thought the man might live there. If not, he was certainly friends with the people who owned the place. He climbed a tree and watched the people come and go. He didn't see Monseigneur, but then he had not really expected to, since it was late. He planned to wait until it was dark, and then beg a handout and ask if they had anyone there who was sick.

  Monseigneur's arrival in a carriage with a crested panel saved him from having to do that. He had watched Monseigneur alight - he had still seemed sad, and he was moving as though he were in pain, but his face had suddenly brightened and he had smiled when the door to the inn had opened.

  Larouche could see the dark‑haired lady standing in the doorway and smiling back at him. As he watched, she went out to Monseigneur, spoke to him - he couldn't hear what she was saying - then kissed his cheek when he raised her hand to his lips. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and they walked back inside the inn. She was smiling as Monseigneur turned and closed
the door.

  ** ** **

  Larouche dropped silently from his tree. So Monseigneur was safe and well. Very good. Now he could go after Dracquet.

  Larouche had devoted a great deal of thought to Dracquet and Monseigneur.

  There was a series of carvings on one of the churches that reminded him of the two of them. It showed Michael the Archangel and the Devil. In the first carving, St. Michael and the Devil were facing each other, towering over a tiny little figure who was, according to Père Louis, a man's soul. In the next scene they were fighting with their swords, while in the last one, St. Michael stood victorious with the soul in his arms and the Devil at his feet.

  Larouche had witnessed the meeting of Monseigneur and Dracquet in the park, and that encounter had made him think of the carvings. It isn't necessary to exchange blows in order to fight. He had heard Monseigneur say, There is nothing you can say to induce me to go along with you in any venture, though I die for it tomorrow!

  Monseigneur had said that, and Dracquet had brought in the worst murderer in France and tried to take him at his word. Now it was time to put a weapon in Monseigneur's hand.

  Dracquet had said, I am leaving Paris tonight and I shall be away for several weeks. And yet, he was still in Paris. He was being very hush‑hush, and that, to Larouche's mind, indicated that he was about to do something that Monseigneur would probably want to stop.

  Père Louis had often quoted, 'What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim upon the rooftops.' Larouche was not sure what it meant to 'proclaim' something, but he suspected that it was similar to shouting. And he was going to proclaim a few things about Dracquet to Monseigneur that that stern, steely man would be very interested in hearing...

  ** ** **

  He went back to Dracquet's house that evening to beg a meal from the cook and spend some time gossiping with the servants.

  Larouche could be quite charming when he put his mind to it. Within three hours he was filled with the cook's best pastry and some news regarding comings and goings that he thought would interest the Police very much.

  ** ** **

  "A milor' from England, no less," said the cook. "And some important business under his hat, from what His Nibs is doing! Telling everyone he's out and keeping to the upper stories of the house, with all the windows closed! He's up to something, make no mistake!"

  "A milor'?" Larouche asked, filling his mouth with succulent lamb stew and washing it down with cider. "What's that?"

  "A toff," explained the cook. "He's been here twice in as many weeks. Expensively dressed, looks like an aristocrat. English, I think - he speaks good French but with an accent like the English. Talking about some sort of princess who's coming to visit, though I have never heard her name. They're up to no good, and it makes me nervous. I have heard something about selling guns and something else about troops and some word like 'prescription', or some such! And they keep talking about 'the succession', too, whatever that's supposed to mean."

  He looked suddenly tired and fearful. "I wish there was something I could do to stop it, but it would be worth my family's lives. Dracquet's a bad one to cross. I am sorry I ever took up with his household, but I didn't know..."

  Larouche picked up a piece of lamb with his fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. "When's this milor' coming back?" he asked as he chewed.

  "I don't know," said the cook, who was chopping onions. "He doesn't tell me anything - not that I want him to! - but I was told to get a fine dinner together for Tuesday next! I have a shopping list, too, no less! The finest truffles, the best beef, wine from Grandiere et Fils!"

  Larouche nodded and wolfed down the rest of his stew, then consented to eat a small sugar‑cake. He licked a line of milk from his upper lip afterward and treated the cook to his best smile. "Even if he's up to no good," he said, "You'll do the bastard proud." He added mentally, If Monseigneur doesn't stop him first!

  ** ** **

  Larouche went to a stationer's shop the next morning, where he begged a sheet of scraped vellum, a split pen and some ink, and wrote out a note for the Police.

  Père Louis had taught him his letters and basic writing skills, but he had not used them in almost a year. It took him two hours of concentrated effort, his nose two inches from the sheet, his tongue gripped firmly between his teeth, to compose a letter of only one page.

  When he finished, he had a page of uneven writing, smeared where he had to lick off mistakes and rewrite them. It looked good to his eyes:

  If the polise who are intressed in doins of draquett will come to his house on tusday next at seven oclok they will find a malor from angland and things that wil intress them such as he isent out of towne but is in his own home and has been for a long time and is doin things the polise wont like and want to stopp.

  The servans tole me about this and sad that draqett has had a tof visiting him all sumer from angland, and he talks about a pirnces who is comin to france and what wil hapen when she gits hear. They talk about trops and a sukseshun and a perskripshun and they hope cops dont get wind of them.

  Draquet is reel pist that the inspekter wassent kilt an renay benot and lenor was but he is puling in his goons for now becos the other thing is more impornt for now.

  I am proclaming this to polise but I dont think the polise shuld lett draqet no thar comin, since he will becom scard and flee and wont be in town for reel and it wil all be for nothin.

  I am a freind who wants nothin but the good of france and the bad of draquet. If their is antyhing els that is desared the polise can ask arond and I will anser.

  A frend

  He paused and added,

  Ps I am glad they dint kil you.

  That written, he hurried off to the Prefecture. Monseigneur would be very interested in the note.

  LIII

  LAROUCHE DISCOVERS

  HOW GROWNUPS JUDGE BOOKS AND CHILDREN

  Whether or not Monseigneur would be interested in the note was a question that took a back seat to that of getting the note to him. Larouche discovered the hard way that grownups tend to judge books by their covers and people by their appearance. He was no one's idea of an aristocrat. He was also very young. No one wanted to speak to him.

  He told the Officer of the Day that he had important information, and the man had merely cast a jaded eye over him and suggested that he think up a story that would fool someone and leave the old chestnuts to those who could give them the proper delivery.

  His exchange with Larouche degenerated to a slanging‑match, with Larouche having the upper hand in words of virulent foulness. The upshot was that two strapping constables had carried him bodily from the Prefecture and deposited him on the pavement outside. Once ejected from the Prefecture, he had a reaction that embarrassed him terribly: he sat down before the building and cried.

  Luck was with him. A plump, bright‑eyed lady in a black bonnet with cherry‑red ribbons, strolling along the Boulevard du Palais with two little girls in tow and carrying a nicely capacious basket, caught sight of him.

  "What's the matter, my lad?" she asked in a high, sweet voice.

  "I need to talk to a cop about something urgent!" Larouche wailed as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Those goons won't let me in!"

  The lady chuckled and held out her hand. "We'll see about that," she said.

  Larouche paused, doubtfully wiping his hand on the seat of his trousers, then laid his other hand in hers and followed her into the Prefecture.

  He discovered then that she was the wife of one of the senior administrative officers, and something of a celebrity. She had come to drop the youngest girl off to visit with her godfather, who was an Inspector there. Her basket contained sweet pastries for the men there, and there was an extra one for him, as well. She arranged for Larouche to speak with her husband before she left.

  As she was getting ready to go, she took out a large, neatly wrapped package and said to the young constable who was
escorting her, "Don't forget to give this to the Chief Inspector when Pauline leaves!"

  The junior constable smiled and bowed. "He'd kill me if I did," he said. "Good afternoon, Madame! And thank you!"

  She smiled at him and then leaned down to pat Larouche's cheek. "Speak with my husband," she said gently. "He will help you!" She was gone with another smile, taking the older of the two little girls with her.

  Larouche was ushered to a chair, where he waited for a good five minutes before he found himself facing a plump, kindly, but stern‑looking man who smiled down at him and asked his name.

  He stared back up at the man and offered his note. "My name doesn't matter," he said. "This is for the big Inspector with the black coat with the capes. The guy with the green eyes. He's after a certain man: well, here's some stuff for him. Just see he gets it!"

  "I certainly shall," said the plump man. "And what of yourself, son? Are you hungry?"

  "I already ate," said Larouche. "The lady gave me a bun." He added, "It was good!"

  "They usually are," the man said with a smile. "But may I tell the Inspector you're waiting for him?"

  Larouche fought down sudden panic and shook his head. What if Monseigneur knew it was he who had been throwing the stones? "It won't be necessary," he said gruffly. "He has the message, and it's all true! Just see he gets it." He paused and added, "Please."

  "Would you like us to pay for a hackney back to your home?" the man asked.

  Larouche bowed, as he had seen the cook do. "That won't be needful - I mean necessary," he said.

  "As you wish," said the plump man as he offered his hand in the same way one man might offer it to another.

  Larouche nodded and slid off his seat, then shook the man's hand, which was still proffered. "Thanks," he said.