No secret letters, no compromising notes lay inside. He lifted out a colorful bead necklace, judged it to be glass, and replaced it. A pair of tarnished silver earrings, a cameo on a black velvet ribbon, a cloisonné brooch, and a few hair ornaments studded with glass gems completed the inventory.
“Did your daughter have much jewelry?” he asked Montereau, after prodding the lining to be sure Célie had hidden nothing beneath the sky-blue silk.
“A few valuable pieces. A diamond brooch that was a gift from her godmother, and I’d given her a pair of pearl bracelets for her sixteenth birthday. She also wore some of my late wife’s jewelry now and then, on special occasions, when we entertained.”
“I see no pearl bracelets or diamond brooches here.” Aristide stepped aside so that Montereau could peer into the jewelry box.
“Bless me--what has become of it all?”
“I saw her take away some things,” piped a voice. Aristide turned to the boy, startled.
“She was going out of the house and she had a little packet wrapped up in a handkerchief and she dropped it and a ring fell out.” Théodore stepped up to the dressing table and solemnly eyed the near-empty jewelry box. “It’s not here, and it’s--it had a green stone in it. Célie said it was our mamma’s.”
“What did your sister tell you she was doing with the ring?” Aristide asked him.
“She didn’t say anything. She just took the ring and told me not to tell anybody I saw her going out.”
“When was this, Théodore?”
The boy shifted from one foot to another, pulling at his lower lip. “I don’t know. This summer.”
“That’s very helpful. Thank you.”
Théodore grinned. A handsome boy, with traces of Célie’s delicate features, Aristide mused, though he favored his stocky father not at all.
“But what does this mean?” Montereau demanded after sending Théodore back to the nursery. “Why would Célie have disposed of her jewels? To give to Saint-Ange? Why would anyone coerce Célie?” He sat heavily on the nearest footstool and patted his wig more askew than ever. “I know nothing that could be held against my daughter. She is . . . she was a lovely girl. She was modest and virtuous and a man couldn’t have wished for a dearer child.”
“You’re sure she had no--forgive me--no entanglements with any young men?” Aristide asked him, wondering whether Montereau had been as observant as had Madame de Laroque.
“Certainly not. She scarcely looked at young men. I’d spoken of marriage to her, of course, but only to mention a few suitable young gentlemen who had approached me regarding her hand. She only said she was not yet eager to marry, and I respected her wishes. She never gave me any reason to think she had already given her heart to another.”
“Nevertheless, it seems Saint-Ange had some sort of hold over her.”
“I cannot think what,” said Montereau, shaking his head.
“We’ll know more when they’re done searching his apartment,” Brasseur said. “We’ll be as discreet as possible. Meanwhile,” he added, glancing at his notes, “perhaps you could call your daughter’s maid, and give me the addresses of her friends. We’ll need to question them.”
Pierrette arrived in answer to the summons. Pierrette was most distressed. Her mistress had been such a sweet young lady, so pretty and gentle. It must have been some horrible bandit who had killed her, for no one would want to kill a lovely young creature like ma’m’selle who didn’t have an enemy in the world.
At length Brasseur broke through the torrent of words and inquired about the last time she had seen Célie.
Why, it was just as she had told the master. At quarter to five Ma’m’selle Célie had said she was going out. No, she hadn’t said where, just on an errand. Yes, her mistress often went out by herself, but usually she visited friends, very respectable friends; there was no harm in that, was there?
Aristide agreed there was no harm in that. Pierrette turned a pert, wide-eyed face to his and continued, a faint blush creeping along her cheeks. She’d supposed ma’m’selle had visited a friend who’d invited her to the theater. Most of ma’m’selle’s friends were married ladies who kept boxes at the theater or the opera house, and after the performance they would ordinarily send her home in their carriages. Ma’m’selle didn’t often care to be burdened with a chaperone unless it was Pierrette herself. Poor ma’m’selle had grown very independent, though she was sweet as ever, since her poor mother had died; perhaps she’d risked her reputation just the tiniest bit, but surely no one could imagine any wickedness of her. Ma’m’selle Célie had been dreadfully ill some years back, though she’d recovered well enough, and perhaps surviving an illness like that made you fearless of anything that might come.
“Go on, please,” Aristide told her, attempting to ignore her gaze. He had no idea why some women seemed to find him appealing; he had never flattered himself that he was a pretty fellow, lean and somber as he was, though he might admit he was not altogether ill-favored.
She hadn’t been there herself when Ma’m’selle Célie had been so ill, she’d only been engaged two years ago, but she’d heard all about it. Abed for months, she was, the poor thing, and it must have been something catching, for her mother had forbidden any of the servants to do for her; madame had cared for her all by herself and brought her all her meals--
With difficulty, Brasseur returned to the subject of Célie’s friends. Who was her closest friend?
That would be Citizeness Villemain, who lived on Rue du Bac, not far away. They had been friends since they were little girls, before the Revolution. A very well-bred married lady. And there was another lady, a Citizeness Clément, that Ma’m’selle Célie was very friendly with, though the citizeness didn’t often call at the house. A lady from a family of quality before the Revolution, Ma’m’selle Célie had said, but with no fortune. She thought Citizeness Clément lived in a boardinghouse near the Luxembourg Palace; the coachman would know, for Ma’m’selle Célie had sometimes visited her friend’s lodgings.
With some relief, Brasseur concluded the interview and sent Pierrette on her way with a five-sou piece in her pocket. The other servants could say only that their mistress had been the sweetest and kindest of young ladies. Avoiding Montereau’s persistent questions, Brasseur thanked him for his assistance, assured him he would inform him as soon as they learned anything, and departed the house.
“Rue du Bac, I think,” Brasseur said as they returned to their fiacre. “This friend of hers might know something.”
“I’d rather go back first to the Basse-Geôle,” said Aristide.
“Good God, what for?”
“Just a hunch.”
Brasseur shrugged and told the driver to return to the Châtelet. “What’s this to do with Saint-Ange’s murder?” he inquired, as the fiacre jolted out of the courtyard.
“Nothing much, I fear; but I like to have my questions answered. I have my suspicions about Célie Montereau’s secret.”
“You think she wasn’t as innocent as her father would believe?”
“That’s usually the secret young girls want to keep from their parents. And that long illness of hers--no severe illness is contagious for months on end, is it?”
Brasseur frowned, but Aristide said nothing else until they had arrived at the cellar beneath the Châtelet again. “Bouille,” Aristide said to the concierge, as they stood over Célie’s shrouded body, “when you take inventory and examine a corpse, do you look for anything other than to confirm the police surgeon’s opinion as to the cause of death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . . I wondered if you, or a doctor, had ascertained whether or not this young woman was a virgin.”
“You’re not asking him to--” Brasseur demanded, outraged. “God in Heaven!”
“We think she was in Saint-Ange’s apartment because he was extorting money from her,” Aristide said, unruffled by his companion’s indignation. “But what sort of frightful secret cou
ld a well-bred girl like Célie Montereau have to hide, except for something that would, if revealed, ruin her reputation? I know it’s a matter of some delicacy . . . but I’d like to see my suspicions confirmed.”
“That’s not part of the usual examination, no,” Bouille mumbled. He turned his dolorous gaze to Brasseur, who scowled and swiftly nodded. Aristide turned away as Bouille lifted the sheet and bent over the young woman’s corpse.
“You’re right,” said Bouille, a moment later.
“Not a virgin?”
“No.”
“Could you tell if, perhaps, she had given birth to a child?” Aristide said.
Bouille frowned and took a swallow from his pocket flask. “Well, I’m no doctor, though I’ve studied a few medical books, and I shouldn’t like to voice any slanderous accusations without proof . . . but working here I’ve seen a great many corpses, and just between you and me I would say it’s very likely indeed. Not recently, though.”
“Ha,” said Brasseur, as Aristide nodded. “More than enough for extortion. Though I don’t know how far I’d trust that drunk’s opinion,” he muttered to Aristide, out of Bouille’s hearing.
A career spent examining and stripping an incessant stream of corpses in various stages of putrescence, Aristide thought, might drive any man to drink.
“Best not say anything to her father about it, if we see him again,” Brasseur cautioned him as they left the cellar. “He doesn’t need a second nasty shock.” Aristide nodded again, without speaking.
So that fragile young creature, who scarcely looked at young men, had not been as chaste as she seemed.
To whom, he wondered, would the extortioner have threatened to reveal Célie Montereau’s shame? Father, sweetheart . . . the world?
#
They returned to the Left Bank and Rue du Bac to call on Hélène Villemain, who received them in her elegant teal-blue parlor, a silent footman in attendance.
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said, pouring them tiny cups of hot chocolate. “I’m shocked and grieved at Célie’s death, of course.”
Aristide had planned to be more circumspect, but decided the calm young woman before him, eyes swollen but otherwise composed, could endure plain speaking. “Did you know it’s likely someone was extorting payment from Célie?”
Hélène abruptly set down the chocolate-pot. “Gracious, no. Whatever can have brought you to that conclusion? Do you have proof?”
“We think so.”
“I did warn her she sometimes behaved a little too independently for a young unmarried woman.” She shook her head and abstractedly patted at a few dark curls that had escaped from beneath the pins and ribbons keeping her fashionable Grecian coiffure in place. “But surely no one would have found it worth his while to force money from her for a few minor indiscretions.”
“Not minor; there’s indication that . . . that she had had a lover once.”
Helene said nothing for a moment, absentmindedly stirring her chocolate. “That explains it, then. That explains quite a lot I never dared ask her about.” She abruptly dismissed the hovering servant, then turned back to Aristide and Brasseur. “You won’t let her father know about our conversation, will you, unless it’s absolutely necessary?” Aristide glanced at Brasseur and silently shook his head.
“Well then; Célie and I were at the same convent, but I was two years older. When I left Sainte-Cécile’s, Célie was exactly the sort of person you expect an aristocratic, convent-educated girl to be: well-mannered, accomplished, religious, shy, and completely ignorant of the--the essential facts of human existence. She came home the following year--late in ’eighty-nine, when she was fifteen--and she was just the same. But then I was taken to England for three months, and during that time Célie changed somehow, became more assertive, more self-confident. Now that I think back, I realize the difference was that between a shy, inexperienced girl and a married woman. Or a girl who is no longer so inexperienced.”
“So young,” Aristide said. “Do you believe at that age it was a genuine love affair, or that some rake seduced her?”
“Oh, I’d suspect the latter, wouldn’t you? Célie adored reading silly novels when she was at Sainte-Cécile’s. We hid them from the nuns, you know,” she added, with a melancholy smile. “If she’d truly fallen in love, he would have been the sort of virtuous young prig who would write tearful poems about her and wait for marriage. Like the hero of a novel. But one thing more I think you should know,” she continued, her brow puckering with the effort of recollection. “It all fits with what you tell me. Some time after I returned from England, Célie fell ill and was confined to her bed for several months, and they let no one come near her.”
Aristide nodded. “She was pregnant.”
“Yes, I think she must have been.”
“And her mother knew?”
“Of course. Célie must have hidden herself away, with her mother’s connivance, as soon as she could no longer conceal her condition simply by loosening her bodice.”
“But what became of Célie’s child?”
“Who knows?” said Hélène with a sigh. “It may have been stillborn, or died soon after birth. If not, I expect Madame Montereau handed it over to some petty bourgeois family or hard-up country squire who was to adopt it. I doubt Célie’s father ever knew anything of it; I recall he was away in Russia, something to do with the Foreign Ministry, for most of Célie’s ‘illness.’ Come to think of it, she and her mother went to the country for a month for her health, or so they said, and she was completely recovered by the time he arrived home.”
“Now that’s a secret you don’t want to see exposed,” said Brasseur. “You don’t imagine he found out about it, and--”
“And murdered his own daughter for the sake of the family honor?” Aristide said. “No, unless I’m sadly mistaken, he’s not the man to do that. And he said he was at Méot’s, which can be confirmed easily enough. But Saint-Ange must have learned of the existence of this bastard child. A rumor of a youthful indiscretion might be laughed off, but living proof of an indiscretion is not so easily hidden.”
“Poor Célie,” murmured Hélène.
“Did you ever have any idea who this lover--or seducer--might have been?”
“None at all. I told you she had grown more self-confident in her manner. But at the same time, she grew cool toward young men. She must have resolved never to make the same mistake again.”
“It would surprise you to know, then, that she was secretly in love?”
She stared at Aristide for an instant. “Yes, it would. Who?”
“We were hoping you could tell us. Do you know anyone to whom she might have been attracted? Someone like ‘the hero of a novel,’ as you said?”
“No. That is . . . I know of one young man, the son of a banker, who might be the sentimental sort. Célie knew him; we often met him at the theater. Feydeau de la Beyré. I believe he lives somewhere near the Place Vendôme, by the Boulevard.”
“Probably a comfortable bachelor apartment, if he’s a wealthy young sprig of a banking family,” said Aristide, as Brasseur scribbled down the name.
“But if he and Célie were in love, I don’t see why she would have preserved such secrecy. I doubt her father would have objected to him as a son-in-law. He is rich, of respectable though not noble family, and I’ve never heard anything against him.” She rose. “Please, call on me if I can be of any more assistance. And, Commissaire--find whoever did this.”
CHAPTER 8
Montereau’s coachman had provided Brasseur with an address for Célie’s other friend, Citizeness Clément, who lived in a cheap boardinghouse near the Sorbonne. While Brasseur returned to the Right Bank and his reports, Aristide turned his own steps toward the Latin Quarter.
“I keep a respectable house here,” the landlady repeated for the third time, over her shoulder, as she led Aristide to the fifth-floor attic and sourly scratched on the door. “If one of my lodgers is mixed up in somet
hing illegal, I’m sure I know nothing about it, nor do any of the other lodgers. They’re quiet, respectable folk. I’ll thank you not to let it be known that somebody from the police has been asking questions in my establishment. Citizeness Clément! A person is here to see you!”
Aristide assured her his visit was no imputation on her character and shouldered aside her assertions of law-abiding propriety as the door opened a crack, revealing a pale, unsmiling young woman. “Are you Citizeness Rosalie Clément?” he said. “I represent the police of the Butte-des-Moulins section.”
“What do you want?” she demanded, eyeing him. “And what are you doing here on the Left Bank? Don’t you inspectors stay inside your own sections?”
“I’m not an inspector, citizeness; merely an unofficial agent of the police. I’m trying to learn all I can about Célie Montereau.”
“Why on earth should the police be inquiring about Célie?”
“Do you not know? Has no one told you, sent a message?”
She shook her head. “About what?”
“Citizeness Montereau . . . is dead.”
“Dead!”
“You didn’t know?”
“Dear God, no. I suppose no one thought to tell me. I--” She bowed her head for a moment as she fumbled for a handkerchief. “I . . . I didn’t move in the same circles as Célie’s other acquaintances.”
“Were you close?”
“We were good friends,” she continued, more calmly, “though perhaps not as intimate as she and her school friend were.”
The landlady nodded. “Citizeness Montereau called quite often. She arrived in her own carriage,” she added. “The other lodgers were most impressed.”
“Perhaps you can help me,” Aristide said to Rosalie. “May I come inside?”
“Certainly not,” Rosalie said with a glance at the landlady. “Citizeness Deluc wouldn’t approve at all.” He heard a subtle undertone of laughter in her voice, despite the tears she tried to blink away, as she continued. She was more attractive than he had thought at first glance, and her dark eyes were intelligent. “But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we had a decorous conversation in the parlor.”
GAME OF PATIENCE (Aristide Ravel French Revolution Mysteries) Page 7
