The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "Paul!" she said, "I was so worried! You're all right, then? No one would tell me anything about you! Tell me you aren't hurt!" She took his face between her hands and scanned him before she kissed his cheek.

  "They were under orders," he said. "I am sorry. I didn't think you would worry - "

  "Not worry!" she repeated, holding him at arm's length. "Darling! How could you say that? Let me look at you! Why, you're exhausted! Are you hurt?"

  "Not at all," he answered with a smile. "To all intents and purposes Dracquet is gone. He will insult you no more."

  "And menace you no more," Elise said. She collected herself and released him. "You need sleep," she said. "Look at you: you're obviously worn out! Come sit down. Have you eaten?"

  "I don't remember," Malet said. He seemed somehow detached, as though he were speaking to her from a distance and observing her reaction.

  "I will get you some food," said Yvette.

  "Thank you, Yvette," said Elise. "Sit down, Paul, and stop looking at me like that. You really are tired, I see. Tell me how it went."

  Malet slowly reached into the breast of his jacket and took out the letter. "This came for you," he said as he offered it to her.

  She took it, looked at it, and set it aside. "What is the matter with you?" she demanded. "I ask if you are hurt and you say no and give me letters, and then stare at me! Answer me, Paul: are you hurt at all?"

  He drew a slow breath and smiled, but the smile still had that distant quality that had troubled her. "No, Elise," he said. "I wasn't wounded. Read the letter." His hand rose to lightly touch her cheek.

  Elise looked at the letter as she covered his hand with her own and turned her face slightly to drop a kiss on his palm. The letter was from Charles. She didn't understand why he wanted so urgently for her to read it, but she finally lifted the letter again.

  "Aren't you going to open it?" he asked.

  She frowned at him and would have spoken, but Yvette came back at that moment with a bowl of stew and some fresh bread.

  "There!" said Yvette. "Eat it all now. Alcide is bringing some wine for you, as well."

  Malet nodded and tucked into the stew.

  Elise opened the letter and read it. It was a response to the letter she had written the night she had gone to Montmartre with Malet. The answer was what she had expected. Charles had always been, and would always be, a perfect gentleman. She folded the letter again with a smile and looked up to find Malet watching her.

  He looked down at his stew the moment she met his gaze, and finished it easily enough, but when he had finished, he rose, checked his watch and said, "I must return to the Prefecture, just for a moment. I have remembered something I must do before morning, and it is a matter of some urgency."

  LXV

  CALLING THE TRAVELER HOME

  Malet looked up at the Prefecture, drew a deep breath, and crossed the inner courtyard to the door. The Officer of the Day was Camille Vacherin, a younger constable with a smiling face and the graceful, easy manners of an aristocrat.

  Vacherin raised his head as Malet entered the double doors. His expression's habitual warmth broadened into a smile as he recognized Malet, but he dipped his pen into the pot of ink before him and said formally, "Good evening, M. Chief Inspector. May I see your card?"

  Malet took the card from his waistcoat pocket, waited while it was duly examined, and then signed the logbook. He pocketed the card and then doffed his hat.

  "It's late, Monsieur," said Constable Vacherin. "If you haven't dined yet, there's coffee here. May I fetch you a cup?"

  Malet shook his head. "No," he said. "I won't have time to drink it. I have a message to write up; it must go out with the evening's dispatches to the Bois de Boulogne."

  "Just as well you came, then," said Vacherin. "The courier came early. I will ask him to wait for you."

  Malet thanked him and went back to the Prefect's offices. He accepted the Chamberlain's escort with a smile, declined another offer of coffee and directed Clerel to close the door behind him.

  He looked around the room and then went to the Prefect's desk and sat down. A gold‑tipped pen of carved agate lay before the crystal inkstand. The drawers were well stocked with heavy paper bearing the crest of the French Police, and a lump of sealing wax.

  He set the wax in the desk‑top crucible, lit the lamp beneath it, and then centered a sheet of paper on the desk. He examined the point of the pen, flicked at a speck of dried ink, and then uncapped the inkwell and dipped the pen in the ink.

  And then he paused, thinking once more of Elise. She had been so warm and vibrant in his arms that night. And yet she had written to Saint‑Légère. He owed it to her, to give her a choice. And it was possible that, faced with Saint‑Légère, she might choose against him, and she would be lost to him forever.

  In Paul Malet's world, a gentleman renounced a lady's friendship when she married. He risked jeopardizing the happiness of her marriage if he did not. He had no conscious thought of renunciation or sacrifice. He only knew that he would willingly do all that lay within his power to make her happy, even though the price might be his own happiness.

  The ink had dried on the pen; he reached into the breast of his waistcoat and took out his handkerchief to wipe the tip of the pen. A square of daintily embroidered lawn and lace fell out. Elise's handkerchief, which he had found in his coat pocket at some point during the past night. He had forgotten.

  He smoothed the delicate fabric over the blotter and gazed down at it. It smelled of verbena, Elise's perfume. He raised it to his lips with a smile, and in his mind his lips were touching hers.

  He had grown to love her so quietly, so gently, and he had been too concerned with chasing criminals and observing the proprieties to plead his love for her. And yet, he thought with an oddly humble sense of wonder, she had come to love him in spite of everything. For, after all, it was she who had spoken first.

  He folded the handkerchief, his fingertips gently smoothing the petal of an embroidered rose as though he were touching her cheek, as he had done just that night.

  He dipped the pen once more, drew the sheet of paper forward, and wrote:

  Paris

  17 October, 1833

  Bois de Boulogne Constabulary

  MathieuRonsard, commandant

  M. Ronsard,

  Circumstances in Paris require that Inspector Charles de Saint‑Légère return to his own arrondissement no later than Tuesday, 22 October, 1833.

  Kindly make the necessary arrangements at once.

  Paul V. Malet

  Provisional Prefect of Police

  He carefully blotted the note, scanned it, then folded it into a neat packet. He lifted the crucible, poured the wax along the seam, waited for it to cool slightly, and then set the seal of the Prefect in the wax. It was done. He would see what happened. In all fairness to Elise, he had to offer her a choice.

  He looked down at the handkerchief and smiled again, a softened, tender smile. He thought he knew what the choice would be.

  His sword‑belt lay across the chair beside the desk where he had left it when he went to speak with the Minister of Police that afternoon. He rose, donned his coat, and buckled the belt over it. His gloves lay on the corner of the desk; he pulled them on and smoothed the cuffs. He took up his hat and the dispatch and went out of his office, pausing to check his watch and then open the back case and smile at the small watercolor portrait of Elise that he had taken from her portfolio and carefully set inside.

  Constable Vacherin was approaching him; he paused with a smile. "Is it ready, M. Chief Inspector?" he asked. "I was coming to get it."

  "Thank you, Vacherin," said Malet. "I was going out at any rate. Yes, here it is. Thank the courier for me, if you please; it was good of him to wait."

  "I certainly shall," said Vacherin, accepting the message from Malet. "And you: will you be returning to your lodgings at that inn now?"

  Malet's mouth tipped oddly, but his voice was very level as
he answered. "No, I think not. Not just yet. Did you read of that killing by the Pont de l'Alma? It's a thoroughly nasty business, and I have a theory... I want to look the place over by night. If anyone should inquire, tell him that I am out - and send this note to the Rose d'Or, if you please. I don't want them to worry when I don't return."

  Constable Vacherin nodded and escorted Malet to the door. "You'll be careful, then, sir," he said.

  "Always," Malet replied. He passed through the doors, closed them behind him, and paused to look down along the Boulevard du Palais.

  The vast bulk of the Conciergerie lay directly before him with its sharply gabled roof and conical towers. The immense structure seemed strangely dark, even though the street lamps had just been lit. Malet looked away toward the river. The relatively warm day had led to a slight fog at nightfall; Malet could see wisps of mist rising from the river below the Pont St. Michel.

  He raised his head and stepped forward into the darkness and the mist.

  LXVI

  THE BASTARD AND HIS LADY

  Elise de Clichy frowned at the embroidery frame before her. Malet's message had unsettled her; it was useless to pretend that she would accomplish anything this evening. The message in itself had not been disturbing, but its undercurrents had been palpable. She took the note from her pocket and reread it:

  The Prefecture

  17 October, 1833

  Elise de Clichy

  Proprietress

  The Rose d'Or

  18th arrondissement

  Madame:

  The pressures of my position make it necessary that I remain on duty for an indefinite time. I beg that you will not trouble yourself awaiting my return.

  Believe me, etc.

  Paul V. Malet

  Provisional Prefect

  It made no sense, not after all that had passed between them over the past month. Surely, surely he could have worded such a message differently! But this short missive seemed so distant, so cold - were it not for his even, elegant handwriting, she might have thought that another had written it.

  She set the embroidery frame aside and frowned at the note again, then crumpled it and tossed it into the grate.

  Distance! Coolness! And this from the man who had held her at Montmartre and all but asked for her hand! She rose, shook out her shirts, and took the candlestick. She was tired and her bed was waiting. She would sort this matter out during the night, since she was certain she would be unable to sleep.

  She mounted the stairs and went into her bedroom. The room was spare but comfortable, with light yellow wallpaper decorated with a medallion design. Lace curtains covered the window beneath a puffed white muslin valance. A Persian carpet woven in a geometric pattern of warm reds and blues covered the floor, and a smaller rug of gray and red sat before the hearth. Her bed was narrow and deep, curtained with white and covered by a whitework spread that had been part of her trousseau at the time of her disastrous first marriage. Yellow Chinese vases covered with pink peonies, imported by her father from Shanghai, sat on the mantelpiece.

  She unpinned her hair and brushed it about her shoulders, then raised her hands to the pearl buttons that fronted her bodice. Her nightgown and lace nightcap lay across the bed. Someone - probably Marie - had turned down the covers.

  She considered. A posset would help her sleep. Best go downstairs and mix one for herself, and hope that it would help her forget her worry about Paul.

  She refastened her bodice, tied her hair back with a rose‑colored ribbon, and started to the door.

  A knock upon the door made her jump.

  "Yes?" she called.

  "It's Alcide, Madame. Chief Inspector Malet is here - "

  "Paul?"

  "Yes, Madame. He asks to speak with you if you haven't retired yet."

  Elise opened the door and stared at Alcide. "It's late," she said. "Where is he?"

  "In the large salon," Alcide replied. "He looks exhausted." He hesitated and then said, "Do - do you want me to tell him you have gone to bed?"

  "No," she said. "I will be right down."

  He was waiting before the fireplace. Except that it was dark outside, things were just as they had been when she had first met him. This time, though, he seemed exhausted and drained, and he was gnawing his lower lip. Marie‑Francoise had done that, too. On her it had been charming. On Inspector Malet it was touching, and she found herself thinking of the lonely little boy that he had been, growing up in that terrible prison, starved for love and struggling to rise above the filth around him.

  And then she remembered the note.

  He had heard her. He looked up as she came toward him. His eyes seemed almost black in the candlelight, and his mouth was tight, as though he were in pain.

  "I received that very abrupt message you sent me from the Prefecture," she said. "You told me you wouldn't be back tonight."

  "I apologize for the abruptness," he said. "I have been pushing myself too hard and it has affected my manners. I did have an emergency to tend to, and I was on my way to it, but I decided that it must wait until I settle matters here with you."

  "'Settle matters'?" she repeated, hurt by his tone. "I am not in any hurry, Paul. It can wait until you're rested."

  "No," he said. "It must be tended to at once. That is why I am here: I won't require those rooms any more since I will be returning to my own home tonight. There is a matter of outstanding rent owed: I believe I still owe you three weeks' rent: are we agreed on that?"

  She looked straight at him. "We are agreed," she said. "I can verify it in my books, if you wish, but I believe you are quite correct."

  He nodded and sat down at her escritoire. He took a sheet of her stationery and wrote briefly, then took another sheet and filled that. He blotted both sheets and handed them to her.

  "This is a draft on my bank," he said, tapping the shorter note with the end of the pen. "M. de L'Aulnes of the Banque de France will honor it at once. The other is a receipt. If you will sign it, I can submit it with my Procès‑Verbal and be reimbursed for my costs here."

  Elise looked down at the papers. "I see," she said. She raised troubled eyes to his face. "Paul - " she said.

  He spoke over her. "My belongings are packed," he said. "I will send my servant for them tomorrow. Our association in this venture will be concluded once you sign the receipt for me."

  She scanned the receipt, then looked up at him. "Do you want me to do this?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  There was nothing more to say. She took the pen and dipped it in the ink, then paused. "I will miss you, Paul, when all this is - is concluded," she said.

  His tired, somber expression warmed slightly. "Yes," he sighed, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "You made it very clear. Sign it, please."

  She gazed down at him for a long moment, puzzled.

  "Sign it quickly," he said. His eyes were still closed.

  Her pen scratched across the paper. She set it aside. "Here," she said, and offered the receipt.

  He opened his eyes with an effort. "Done?" he asked.

  "All done," she replied.

  "Then I am no longer in the terrible situation of being a guest under your roof," he said, rising. "Now - "

  She lifted her chin. "'Now - '?" she said challengingly.

  He took both her hands in his and drew her to him. "Now," he said. "There is nothing in the world to prevent me from telling you that I love you as I have wanted to all these past weeks."

  Elise slipped her hands from his clasp only to move into his arms and raise her face silently to his.

  "Now do you understand?" he asked when they moved apart.

  "I understand that you are my own darling guardian angel who worries too much about unimportant things," she returned a little tartly, for he had frightened her for a moment. But she raised her hand to touch his cheek.

  He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "But I was bred and born in scandal and I didn't want it to touch y
ou. I have loved you almost from the first moment we met, and I couldn't speak until now, not while I was a paying guest sleeping under your roof. My God, it was hard! But I know how terribly gossip can hurt a lady like you, and I wanted to spare you that pain."

  She chuckled and stretched up to kiss his cheek before subsiding against him once more. "Then why, dearest, why did you act so oddly tonight?" she demanded, running experimental fingertips along his lapel, smoothing the faint line of the scar on his chin, delicately testing her new rights and privileges.

  He drew a shaken breath and said, "I wanted you to have a choice, so I summoned Saint‑Légère home."

  Her fingertips stilled against his lips. She pulled away a little and frowned up at him.

  He didn't meet her eyes. "You see, I saw the letter you had written to him that night we went to the Butte. I was afraid you might feel something for him, still, but I wanted you to be happy, so I - I sent it in the official dispatch case for you. And you were smiling when you got his letter tonight... I love you so much, Elise - I have never felt this way for anyone before. And I thought if you did care for him - I thought you should have a choice, even if it meant you might not choose me, so I called him home just now, before I came here - "

  "That was when you sent that abrupt message!" Elise exclaimed. "But you didn't mean to come back when you sent it!"