The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  Gone, then. And she hadn't had a chance to bid him farewell and Godspeed. What if he were killed?

  It didn't bear thinking of. Elise resolutely turned her thoughts aside. Now that she had found him, it was impossible that she would lose him. Fate would never be so cruel to her.

  She went into the salon, where she had been darning stockings the night before. She had written an important letter the night before, a letter to Charles refusing him finally and telling him that she had found another to love. It must be posted at once.

  But it wasn't in its place on the mantelpiece.

  Elise frowned. "Marie, have you seen a letter I left on the mantel?" she called.

  Marie came into the room. "The one addressed to M. de Saint‑Légère?" she asked. "M. l'Inspecteur took it with him. He said he would send it in the official dispatch case for you. He said it would save expenses."

  Elise quietly sat down to gaze unseeingly before her. Oh Paul! she thought.

  LXI

  AT THE PREFECTURE:

  THE HUNTER SETS HIS SNARE

  "Yes, I know the carriage is waiting," said Malet. "We have plenty of time yet, and I am drinking my chocolate and eating my bread as fast as I can." He smiled imperturbably upon his bodyguard and dipped the end of the small loaf of bread that was serving him as supper into his cup of thick, hot chocolate, held it there while the bread soaked up the chocolate, and then took a bite. "Why don't you go out and tell them that I will be out directly?" he asked after he had finished chewing.

  The shy young man whom Count d'Anglars had assigned to be Malet's bodyguard cast an awed eye over the ribbons and medals that brightened the dark blue and gold splendor of Malet's full dress uniform. He ducked his head when he saw that Malet had caught him gazing wide‑eyed at the Plaque de Grand‑Aigle of the Legion d'Honneur that blazed on his breast.

  "We have told them already, M. l'Inspecteur," he said. "They're awaiting your convenience." He paused, weighing the extent of his courage, and added, "And may I tell M. Chief Inspector that His Excellency's dinner party begins promptly at half past seven o'clock?"

  Malet dipped the bread again and then looked up at his bodyguard. "By all means, my dear Constable," he said cordially as he raised the chocolate‑soaked bread to his lips. "Tell me anything you wish!"

  The young man was not unnaturally smitten to silence. Ever since he had first been assigned to serve as bodyguard to Chief Inspector Malet, he had had the uncomfortable, half‑foolish feeling that he was about as effective a bodyguard for Malet as a rabbit might be for a tiger. He suspected, in fact, that Malet was more active guarding him than the other way around. He sat back in his chair with a sigh and began to twiddle his thumbs after a moment.

  Malet eyed the busy thumbs and then nodded toward the corner of his desk. "Since your hands are so idle, son," he said, "You can occupy them by recopying these orders for tomorrow's distribution. One copy for each arrondissement - and see that you write them in your fairest hand."

  "Yes, sir," said the young man, and bent his head over the papers.

  Malet hid a smile as he watched for a moment and then returned his attention to the chocolate and the bread. The chocolate was thick, rich and sweet, the bread was very fresh, with a heady smell of yeast to it. The dying sun lay in red stripes across the carpet; its warmth revived the rich scent of wool and beeswax.

  Everything was set; it only remained to savor each moment as it came. He watched his bodyguard dip his pen in the ink and set it to the paper before him. He could hear the nib scratching lightly across the paper as he closed his eyes. All was in readiness; he could watch the night unfold.

  The bread was finished; Malet tilted the last of the chocolate down his throat, set the cup down, and rose. "Now we're ready," he said as he took up his gold‑braided, cocked hat and set it on his head.

  The bodyguard came over with his evening cloak. Malet let the young man help him don the garment, his mind flashing over a thousand considerations. "The carriage is ready, is it not?" he asked.

  The bodyguard stared at him, but he was learning. "Yes, Monsieur," he said. "I made inquiries."

  "Excellent," said Malet. He took his pistols from the inside pocket of his cloak, cast an attentive eye over them, and then replaced them.

  He led the way out of his office and to the Boulevard du Palais entrance of the Prefecture, where the official carriage of the Prefect of Police awaited him. He cast a critically approving eye over the arms of France painted on the side panels, then surveyed the team of horses, who stood quietly in harness.

  "We'll be driving to His Excellency's house at the Place Francois Ier this evening, Gerard," said Malet. "You know the address."

  'Gerard', who happened to be a full Inspector with the 6th arrondissement, gathered the reins and said with the proper degree of woodenness, "Yes, M. Chief Inspector."

  "Then let us leave at once," said Malet as he pulled on his gleaming white gloves. "We're disgracefully late."

  "Yes, sir," said 'Gerard'. He waited until Malet and his bodyguard were within the carriage, and the postilions were properly placed before whipping up the horses.

  Inside the carriage, the bodyguard said, "Sir - ?"

  Malet, who was engaged in watching the grimy facade of the Hotel Dieu hospital passing by on the right, said, "Hm?"

  "I told you we were late! Didn't you hear me? I - I am sorry I didn't say it louder - "

  "Oh, I am not hard of hearing," said Malet. "The time of my arrival at M. d'Anglars' dinner party is immaterial. There are other, more important matters afoot."

  "Sir?"

  "Never mind," said Malet. "You'll understand shortly. Whatever happens, you are to continue to His Excellency's house and report to him. Do you understand me?"

  The bodyguard nodded.

  "Good," said Malet with a smile. "You'll do." The clatter of the horses' hooves altered slightly as they crossed the Pont Notre Dame and turned left on the Quai des Gesvres. The carriage picked up speed.

  They were approaching the Place du Chatelet. Malet rapped smartly on the ceiling of the carriage. After a second, there was an answering knock from the roof.

  "Very good," Malet said softly as he gathered himself and rose.

  "I beg your pardon?" said the bodyguard.

  Malet smiled at the young man and said, "Tell His Excellency that everything is going well."

  "Sir?"

  "I told you before: you'll understand in two seconds," Malet said. He opened the carriage door and looked out.

  "M. l'Inspecteur!" gasped the bodyguard as he leaned across Malet to slam the door shut. A sturdy shove to the breastbone forced him back against the upholstered seat.

  "You worry too much," said Malet over his shoulder. He frowned out the open door and tensed, his hands braced against the frame of the carriage door. They had crossed the Place du Chatelet, where the old prison had once stood, and were following the Rue Saint Denis north toward the sharp left turn onto the Rue de Rivoli. The juncture, usually congested at best, was crowded with carriages hurrying toward the Comedie‑Francaise.

  "I am leaving you," said Malet. "You'll continue on to His Excellency's house and do the Force proud. I understand that there will be dancing, and M. le Comte has no doubt assigned you a charming lady for a dinner partner."

  "But what - ?"

  "You'll hear all about it tomorrow," Malet said.

  "But you can't - "

  "I certainly can," said Malet with a smile. "I am pulling rank right now. Don't worry: no one will blame you, even if I break my neck. Now good evening, and have a good time!"

  The carriage had been bowling along at a smart trot as Malet spoke; he stepped out the doorway just as they passed a tangle of dark carriages. The bodyguard threw himself forward as the door banged shut.

  "Stop!" he shouted. He opened the door and peered down at the cobblestones that seemed to spin away beneath the wheels of the carriage. The sight made him desperately dizzy. He pulled the door shut and collapsed agai
nst the seat. He heard the coachman crack the whip over the horses' heads; their speed increased. He sank back against the seat with a groan.

  ** ** **

  Larouche watched the carriage pull away from the Prefecture. He had no intention of being anywhere near Dracquet's house that night, but he had wanted to see Monseigneur set out for the kill. It had been worth the wait, he decided as the coach drew away.

  He approved of the disguise; anyone shadowing Monseigneur would think that the man really was going to a party. Everything would be fine. He could go back to the stable where he was staying at the moment and sleep safe in the knowledge that Dracquet's days were numbered.

  LXII

  ROSALIE PLESSIS' DIAGRAM

  PROVES TO BE OF SOME USE

  Malet leveled his field‑glasses at Dracquet's mansion. "The house is dark and I have seen no movement for the past hour," he said. "We're ready to go in." The night was warm; he had doffed his gold‑braided bicorne and evening cloak, but he still wore a Chief Inspector's full‑dress uniform. The moon glinted upon the medals at his chest and flashed from the gold embroidery at his scarlet collar and cuffs.

  He lowered the field glasses and checked his watch. "Eight‑fifteen," he said thoughtfully. "They have had plenty of time to get their business well underway."

  He turned to the National Guard Colonel standing beside him. "Your men have your orders: stop anyone who tries to pass your lines. Please take your position now."

  "Very good, Inspector," answered the colonel, an old friend from Malet's army days. He snapped a jaunty salute and left.

  Malet's smile was perfunctory. "As for you, Chief Constable: your men are clear on their orders?"

  The Chief Constable standing to the other side of the Colonel said, "Yes, Inspector."

  "Excellent," said Malet. He turned to the two Englishmen behind him. "Lord Edwin, Sir Robert - I have personally seen to the placement of your contingent. You and your men know the schedule and have seen the diagram of the house. I will do my best to ensure that his grace of Rochester isn't injured by my men. Now we're going in."

  ** ** **

  Malet raised the hilt of his sword and rapped on the door. He could see the outline of the knocker gouged into the paint; the fixture had been removed. He moved farther into the shadows and nodded to the men who stood flattened to the walls on either side of the door. He waited until they had their pistols ready, and then rapped again.

  Heavy footsteps approached the door. "What is it?" demanded a voice inside.

  Malet smiled grimly. Dracquet was going to regret not having a peephole cut into the door. He said, "Delivery. Open up: I haven't got all night, and the wine'll spoil!"

  There was silence for a moment while Malet eyed the door and debated the wisdom of trying to force it. His reflections were cut off as the doorknob rattled and the door swung inward to show a strapping fellow armed with a cudgel. He stood well inside the brightly lit room and squinted out into the shadows.

  "We're expecting no deliveries," he growled. "We have already got our wine!"

  "Then why did you send a note ordering two cases of my best sauterne?" Malet demanded. "Look at it! It's been jolted all through these streets and someone's going to pay for it here and now or I will speak to your master!"

  "Get lost!" snapped the other as he stepped forward through the door. "No one wants - " his words were cut off as Malet seized his arm and, with a quick twist, sent the man staggering to the pavement.

  The man started to rise; the cold point of Malet's sword at his throat stopped him. The two gendarmes leveled their pistols.

  "One peep from you," Malet said grimly, "and I will ventilate your windpipe! Do you understand me?"

  The man nodded. Malet withdrew his sword and signed for him to be handcuffed and led away.

  No one in sight; he motioned for the squad of Sergents de Ville to follow him, and stepped softly inside the house.

  He glanced quickly around to get his bearings, remembering Rosalie's diagram. Dracquet and his guests were probably dining upstairs. He nodded to the men: split up and go to the subordinate stairs on either side of the house. He saw that done, and then climbed the main staircase at the center of the house with his usual unhurried grace.

  He paused to look right and left when he reached the top. He could hear faint sounds coming from the kitchen. The servants and bodyguards had probably been taken without any undue commotion, though from the clinking and conversation Malet could hear from the dining room, Dracquet was very confident of being undisturbed.

  He could smell food ahead of him: beef in some sort of wine sauce, truffles, and a hint of garlic. He heard the clink of crystal and a rattle of silverware.

  "To Princess Victoria!" cried a voice in poorly accented French.

  The toast was repeated to a chiming of glasses, then another voice cried, "To the war!"

  Dracquet's voice cried, "And God save the future King!"

  Malet's smile thinned. Confident, indeed! But their overconfidence was his strength. His eyes narrowed as he moved softly down the hallway, his hand stilling the motion of his sword.

  The voices were coming from behind a door just ahead of him. He set his hand on the knob, cracked the door, and looked inside. It was an elegant room with silk‑covered walls, and fragile, gilded furniture from the reign of an earlier king. It appeared to serve as a sort of anteroom to the dining salon; Malet could see a pair of pocket doors dividing the two rooms.

  The doors were slightly apart at the moment; beyond them Malet could glimpse a table laden with silver platters and lit by branches of candles.

  The talk was confident and treasonous, and well-oiled by the liberal application of wine. Malet stood and listened for a moment, then reached into his breast pocket and brought out his notebook and pencil. They were using some interesting phrases: the courts would be fascinated.

  He quietly took notes for some minutes until he suddenly realized how much time had passed. He replaced the notebook and pencil, took out his pocket watch, and frowned at its enameled face. Eight minutes: what was keeping the rest of them? It appeared that he would have to find out. He turned and went back to the hallway.

  The Chief Constable was waiting silently at the top of the stairs. "The goons in the kitchen are trussed and gagged, M. Chief Inspector," he whispered. "It took longer than we expected: there were more of them than we were told, but they won't give any trouble now."

  "Excellent," said Malet. "You and your half of the squad will follow me into that room and stand behind the closest sliding door. Someone must go to the servants' stairs and tell the rest of the squad to stay where they are until I call for them. When I go into the room, I want you to send someone downstairs to bring in the back‑up."

  Someone in the dining salon cried, "Down with Louis‑Philippe!"

  Malet and the Chief Constable exchanged suddenly grim glances.

  "Go now," said Malet.

  "Yes, sir."

  Malet nodded and went back into the anteroom, followed by the squad of gendarmes with their drawn swords in their hands. Lord Edwin came in with them.

  Malet spared a nod for the man, but he kept his eyes fixed on the door opposite him. He could see the knob of the back door begin to turn.

  Malet's eyes narrowed as Dracquet's voice raised.

  "War!" cried Dracquet. "The most profitable business in the world!"

  Half the gendarmes had spent some time in the armies, or had lost loved ones. Malet saw some angry looks. He frowned and set his finger to his lips.

  "War!" Dracquet's voice said again over the clink of glasses. "Let's drink to it! The finest money‑making venture known to man! Think of it: the little ones can sweat and bleed and speak of high causes and noble sentiments, and it will be us who sit in comfort and watch our empires rise! What could be easier? Only one death - one plain little girl - and in the uproar that follows we, the masterminds, reap the profits!"

  Another voice spoke in English. From the cadence of t
he words, the brandy had taken its toll. " In a little less than two weeks your king's yacht will sail to Southampton. My niece and my dear sister‑in‑law will embark, to their personal disaster…"

  Lord Edwin started.

  The English voice continued, " - You, Dracquet, will have a king as your friend, and all of us will be wealthier than we ever dreamed!"

  Lord Edwin seized Malet's arm. "This is appalling!" he hissed in Malet's ear. "I am going in to face that viper at once!"

  "Stay where you are!" Malet commanded.

  Dracquet said, "Then let us drink to ourselves: the undisputed masters of Europe when the smoke from this war - "

  "I insist!" said Beauchamps, starting toward the door.

  Malet gripped him by the shoulders and hauled him back. "You will do nothing of the kind!" he hissed. "You'll ruin everything if you rush in now! Be patient!"

  Lord Edwin traded glares with Malet but finally nodded.

  Malet took out his pistol and frowned down at it. One of the gendarmes, angrily shifting his feet, bungled his footing and struck a chair with his scabbard. The sound seemed as loud as a pistol shot.

  "What was that!" gasped one of the men in English.

  "Where was it coming from?" demanded another.

  Malet shook his head at the gendarmes, tucked the pistol in his belt, behind his back, and moved toward the doors.

  "It was coming from the hallway," said Dracquet.

  "We're discovered!" said Rochester's voice.

  "Don't be foolish, Your Grace," said Dracquet. "I am certain it is nothing of the kind. Drink your wine while I ring for Gaston."

  "No!" said Rochester. "My bodyguard - "

  Malet stepped through the door with a smile. He scanned the party assembled at the table and turned unerringly toward a tall, fair man with the protuberant blue eyes and the florid good looks of the house of Hanover. "I am afraid the man is indisposed at the moment, Your Grace," he said in English with the hint of a superbly contemptuous bow. "But perhaps I can be of some assistance."