The Marquise’s pyracantha had turned flaming scarlet, and every day she swept up a pile of tiny corpses, looking up from her broom to the window where her husband sat writing.
He’d finished a story, he told her. Perhaps he’d read it to her someday, but first he was going to send the manuscript to Marie-Laure, to see what she thought of it.
She’d asked if he was planning any more fiction. He didn’t know. Not right now. These days most of his writing was devoted to the antislavery campaign. Well, and letters of course, he added quietly, he was still writing letters.
Poor boy, she thought, it had been weeks since he’d received a response. It would soon be February. What could the silly, stiff-necked girl be thinking?
“Perhaps she took a little holiday,” the Marquise suggested at breakfast. “Went home to visit her brother for the Noël, you know, and stayed through the New Year. Time rather slips past one, during this season.”
He grimaced.
“I’ve considered that.”
“And?”
“I’ve also considered that perhaps, upon seeing her again, her old sweetheart decided hang the dowry, he wanted her even without it. And that his uncle agreed to it this time. And that she…”
“You think that she also…”
“Well, in some ways she’s very conventional. I know she respects the institution of marriage. And that she never really liked the idle life I lead. She thinks a man should leave the world a better place than he found it, you see.”
“As you have been trying to do.”
“In a small way, perhaps.”
“But you think she’s jilted you.” Her gaze was keen, though her voice was quiet.
He paused, forcing himself to maintain an impassive expression. Only a spark or two, somewhere behind his dark eyes, betrayed evidence of inner struggle.
“No,” he said. “No, when all is said and done I still think she loves me. Something’s wrong, Jeanne. I’m going to Provence, and if I don’t find her at the chateau at Carency, I’ll go on to Montpellier. I’m worried that she needs my help. I should have gone already.”
“It would have been difficult, with the roads so bad. And there was Uncle’s illness, and the Anti-Slavery Society—not to speak of all that business with Ariane. You’ve been very good, Joseph, and I shall miss you. But of course you have to go, mon ami.”
“I’ve ordered the coach for tomorrow. Baptiste is packing my things.”
“But you’ll come to the rehearsal tonight, won’t you? We promised to take the actors to supper, you know. And you’ll love the play.”
“You forget, I’ve already seen a private performance of The Marriage of Figaro, at Versailles. But yes, I admire it immensely; of course, I’ll come. I can sleep all day in the coach tomorrow.”
The gossips, scandal-sheet writers, and Mademoiselle Beauvoisin’s claque of faithful admirers weren’t the only ones keeping close watch on the Hôtel Mélicourt.
“He’s ordered the traveling coach, Inspector Marais. He intends to leave Paris tomorrow. If you’re planning to arrest him, you will have to do it tonight.”
“Gently, gently, Pierre.” The Chief of the Capital Crimes Division of the Paris Police glared at his enthusiastic assistant, from across a vast, cluttered writing table.
“Remember, if you can, that I am not planning to arrest him, merely to search his possessions. I can’t arrest him unless we find some palpable proof. And even so…searching an aristocrat is a touchy business. Are the warrants in order?”
Proudly, the younger man produced a large pasteboard portfolio.
“Put it down. Yes, there, on top of that pile of paper.”
Marais opened the cover and gave a low whistle. “Mon Dieu, enough red wax on those documents to light a candelabrum. Very official. My compliments, Pierre.”
“They’re demanding an arrest, Sir. Some of these papers come from Versailles.”
“And the other papers?”
“I thought you’d want to review the dossier we’ve been keeping on the Vicomte. No, not that file, Monsieur L’inspecteur—that one’s from several years ago.”
“Hmmm, it’s got my handwriting on it. But I don’t remember…no, wait a minute, I do remember. Auvers-Raimond…we arrested him, I believe, for a duel, with…merde, with the same Baron Roque. I’d forgotten that part. The Baron tried to get us to lock him away but the charges didn’t stick.”
Rather a blunder to have forgotten, the inspector thought; it would be awkward for him if the higher-ups got wind of his omission. He looked at his assistant with keener attention, and some gratitude as well.
Loyally, Pierre pretended not to notice the gratitude. “And then there are those rumors about his wife, Sir.”
“The wife’s not our department, Pierre. Still, I suppose it does contribute a certain irregularity. And that folder?”
“The reports from Inspector Lebrun in Montpellier. Well, some of them—you’ve read all the early stuff, all those months when he couldn’t find anything. These later reports are more interesting, especially the testimony he took from a servant in Provence. The Vicomte had been in Montpellier, it seems—the servant overheard it while giving him his dinner one night—Auvers-Raimond was in Montpellier the same day as the murder. Smuggling books.”
“Rough work for a gentleman, book smuggling.”
“So is murder, Sir.”
The inspector grunted.
“And did anyone actually see him in Montpellier?
“Not,” he added, “that I’d expect much corroborating testimony there. After all, if you were a bookseller, with the censors always sniffing after you, would you admit to trafficking in smuggled goods?”
Pierre smiled in agreement.
“You’re right about that one, Sir. There wasn’t a bookseller in Montpellier who would admit to having so much as laid eyes on a smuggler. But Lebrun found someone who had. Well, he’s not really a bookseller; he’s a medical student.
“His late father was the bookseller. Good thinking of Lebrun to question everyone whose family was in business last year, instead of just the ones selling books now. It’s a rather cutthroat profession, evidently; in Montpellier one ambitious fellow keeps buying up his competition.
“Anyhow, this Vernet reports that his father got a visit from someone of the Vicomte’s description about a year ago—and rather worse for wear, too. And this is the interesting part: the gentleman was wounded. Lebrun speculates that perhaps the murderer was wounded during the commission of the crime itself.”
“No evidence of that, you know, Pierre. And I take it that this Vernet didn’t find the Baron’s ruby ring.”
“No, Monsieur L’inspecteur—he only mentions an onyx signet ring. You’re right; the pieces don’t quite fit together. But Lebrun was overjoyed nonetheless. It was the only break he’d gotten on the case and it’s been more than a year now. And so he asked us to apply for a warrant to search an aristocrat’s home for evidence of a capital crime.”
Chief Inspector Marais nodded. “Hence all the red wax.”
He leafed through the pages. “Allows me to search the gentleman’s home and personal possessions, though not his aristocratic person itself. Versailles wants action, even if it turns out to be one of their own. Of course,” he added, “if I don’t find anything, it’ll be my skin.”
Pierre laughed, as though to dismiss that possibility. Ambitious young puppy, Marais thought, overconfident, and with a better understanding of paperwork than of people. Still, he’d done an impressive job of preparation.
“Well, it’ll be our skin then, Pierre. For you’ll accompany me tonight. Good experience for you, I think.”
The Vicomte and his wife, the Marquise de Machery, arrived home around eleven, in a small covered carriage. They were in great spirits. The rehearsal had been lively, if unpolished. Well, it was just a first reading, to allow the actors to get a feel for their roles. Nonetheless, they’d thrown themselves into it with gusto, encouraged by news
that this time the King might actually allow a public performance.
Joseph recited some phrases that had stuck in his mind:
“Because you are a great lord you think yourself a great genius…nobility, wealth, rank, office…all this makes you so high and mighty!…for the rest you’re an ordinary person while I, damn it, lost in the anonymous crowd, have had to use all my science and craft just to survive.”
His wife applauded.
“Bravo, Joseph. Well delivered.”
“They’re strong phrases,” he replied. “They speak themselves. And they’ll speak to the audience.”
“I wonder,” the Marquise said, “what will happen when all of Paris is repeating these phrases.”
The coachman had leaped from his seat to help her down the carriage steps. He hurried to care for the horses now, leaving the carriage discreetly parked in the courtyard. It would remain there for an hour, while he took a quick supper. But just before midnight, he’d drive back out through the mansion’s porte-cochere, into dark streets, past a slumbering Notre Dame, across the Seine and up a steep hill, to fetch a visitor from the rue Mouffetard.
The couple crossed the chilly moonlit courtyard, both of them laughing as they tried to reconstruct other speeches, especially the self-serving ones the playwright had written for Figaro’s master, the lecherous Comte Almaviva.
“You know, Joseph,” the Marquise said, “you have a bit of both protagonists in you—Almaviva the privilege-loving aristocrat and Figaro the wily democrat. A composite character would be an interesting hero for a comedy.”
He managed a tight smile as the mansion’s double doors swung open. “Always caught between two worlds, two points of view. But I don’t think such a hero would do for the stage, Jeanne. Perhaps in a novel. But what’s this?”
The chief footman was in a state of great agitation.
“I beg your pardon, Madame la Marquise, but there are two policemen in the green sitting room. Got here two hours ago. With, with…a warrant, Madame. They showed it to me, Madame.
“They said they’d be happy to wait for you, Madame. Well, for Monsieur le Vicomte actually.”
All in all, Inspector Marais thought later, the handsome Vicomte and his fat, plain wife had acted quite decently.
Both of them had seemed utterly astonished at first. They spoke so sincerely and seemed to have so little to hide that he’d been sure the affair would prove an embarrassment for himself and his superiors. Both of them carefully read the warrant and agreed that they had no choice but to allow a search. And both of them were intelligent enough not to say anything that might worsen the situation.
They’d had the footman bring a pot of tea. But of course he and Pierre had refused. They’d wanted to get started as soon as possible, and to avoid any irregularities. The inspector had supervised every detail of the search, watching closely as Pierre and a uniformed gendarme sifted through the trunks and boxes packed for tomorrow’s journey. Not finding anything there, they started in on the paneled armoires and inlaid commodes, the chests and dressers and wardrobes of all sorts.
The gentleman dressed well, Marais thought, in sober colors for the most part, but richly, elegantly. And what an array of toiletries and accessories. So many clever, beautiful little items, jeweled, enameled, or bound in good, expensive leather. The inspector didn’t even know what most of them were, while Pierre seemed almost in a dream, as though he’d stumbled into Ali Baba’s cave.
But no ruby ring.
They’d tried not to make too much of a mess. Putting everything back would be a lot of work for the gentleman’s valet, anxiously watching from outside the doorway.
The inspector had begun preparing his apologies to the Vicomte and his wife when he’d noticed the dressing gown, crushed and wrinkled in a back corner of an armoire. It seemed to have been rolled up in a ball and sloppily tossed there, quite unlike any of the rest of the gentleman’s well cared-for possessions. Bright blue. Very luxurious.
Odd.
“Let’s have a look, Pierre.”
The valet said that he’d packed it this morning, but his master had tossed it aside.
“He told me that if his trip proved a failure I was to give it to a used clothing dealer; for he’d never want to see it again.”
Which would, the inspector thought, have been rather a windfall for the used clothing dealer. Because sewn into the lining of this dressing gown was a fabulous ruby ring.
“I don’t know, Jeanne. I simply don’t,” was all the Vicomte had said when the inspector had formally arrested him for the murder of the Baron Roque.
“Well, then it’s nothing but a mix-up,” his wife had answered briskly, “and we’ll all be laughing about it soon enough.”
“Take a warm cloak,” she told him. “It’s going to be cold tonight. And I’ll be sending you food and more warm clothes tomorrow at…at?” She turned questioning eyes to the inspector.
“At the Bastille, Madame.”
“Ah.” The Vicomte smiled. “Not like the trivial prison where they put me the last time. You know, Jeanne, I’d be awfully put out if they didn’t think I was important enough for the Bastille. Along with the truly subversive writers.”
“I’ll be speaking to my lawyer first thing in the morning,” she told him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you right out.”
“But I am sorry for the trouble I’m causing you, Jeanne.” Odd embrace the two of them had exchanged, the inspector thought. Warm and even passionate in a way, but the sort of passion shared by comrades in arms rather than an intimate married couple. Well, they were an odd pair; he rather liked them. Not that he was surprised at that. Unlike Pierre, Chief Inspector Marais was past being surprised at his own personal response to a suspect.
“You’ve been kind, Monsieur L’inspecteur,” the Vicomte said, “to let me bid farewell to my wife in a civilized fashion. But can we go now? This is hard on her.
“No, wait a minute, just one thing more.” He turned to Pierre. “You see, I’ve already paid for my next regular Friday visit to The Pearl in the Rose. Of course you remember it, Monsieur…” Pierre turned bright scarlet. “…that sober-looking establishment near the quay on the Left Bank. You’d followed me there a few weeks ago, though at the time, I’d thought you were fascinated by the place itself. Of course it is awfully expensive—available only to those who’ve inherited or married great fortunes. I’d considered inviting you in, as my guest.
“Well, it would be a pity, don’t you think, to leave the girls unattended this Friday? So why don’t you go in my stead? Explain the situation, Monsieur, and give Madame Alyse my apologies and best regards.”
An odd speech for a man to deliver in front of his wife, the inspector thought. Pierre stammered his incoherent thanks, while the Marquise seemed torn between rueful laughter and barely suppressed tears.
“I’ll miss you while you’re away, Joseph,” she said, “but I’m sure this silly affair will be settled quickly.”
“And now you’d really better go, Monsieur L’inspecteur,” she said.
Marais had led his little procession out of the place as quickly as he could, to give the lady a chance to let her tears out in peace and privacy.
Instead of crying, though, she helped a distraught Baptiste put Joseph’s rooms in order. And then she went to her study and penned two lists. First she recorded every word that she, Joseph, and the policemen had uttered, to give to her lawyer. And second, she enumerated an extravagant array of things to send to the Bastille.
Lists were comforting things, she thought. Unlike letters to worthless, stupid people.
Still, the letter had to be written, and the sooner the better. And so she penned a letter to the Duc and Duchesse de Carency Auvers-Raimond, outlining the state of affairs and asking for any assistance they could offer. Not that she really expected their help. But it was only decent to inform them of Joseph’s situation rather than let them read about it in the scandal sheets.
And only when
a side door opened and quick familiar footsteps clicked on the marble floors did she relax her composure and allow herself to weep in a pair of loving, sympathetic arms.
Chapter Nineteen
“That will be all, Marianne,” the Duchesse said. “And be sure to close the door behind you. I’ll ring for a footman if Monsieur le Duc or I need anything else.”
Marie-Laure curtsied, picked up the tea things, and quit the room, shutting the door behind her by nudging it with her hip and elbow. The Duc and Duchesse listened to the receding sound of her footsteps on the corridor’s parquet floor.
“She’s looking well,” the Duchesse remarked to her husband. “And Jacques reports that she doesn’t complain of any maladies to the other servants. But it’s wise to check on her from time to time, I think, just in case.”
He nodded distractedly, his eyes on the door, where Marie-Laure had pressed her hip against it.
The Duchesse cleared her throat. “And as for this news about your brother…”
Wresting his attention from the doorway, he turned to face her. “Did you have anything to do with that?” he demanded.
She gazed back at him with flat green eyes. “Not a thing. Of course, it’s rather a stroke of luck for us. But no, it never occurred to me—either to betray him, if he’s the murderer, or to plot against him if he isn’t.”
She spoke softly, as though to show him she wasn’t affected by the skeptical look on his face. “I’m flattered, Monsieur, that you suppose I have the wit for such a thing. I know that you haven’t, no matter how much you might wish to.”
“I? But I’d never…I mean, he’s my brother, damn it, Amélie.” The Duc didn’t seem able to finish his thought.
He stopped, shrugged. “Do you think he did it?” he asked.
“Does it matter if he did?” she replied. “Does it matter who did it? Or who informed on him, for that matter?”
He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose it does,” he said slowly.
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