Duval and the Italian Opera Singer (Napoleon's Police Book 6)

by Michele McGrath

  Duval

  And the

  Italian Opera Singer

  Michèle McGrath

  Duval and the Italian Opera Singer

  Chapter 1

  May 1805

  “Does anyone speak Italian?” Réal asked as he came into the bureau.

  “A few words,” Petit replied first, always keen to get himself noticed by his superiors.

  “I need more than a few words,” Réal told him. “Anyone else?”

  “I can,” I said.

  “You would,” Laurent muttered into the sudden silence that followed. All eyes had turned towards me, some friendly like Fournier’s, the rest hostile.

  Réal ignored the remark and asked, “Well? Fluently?”

  “Yes, but it is some years since I used the language.”

  “Ah, I remember. You fought in Italy, didn’t you?”

  “I did, but my grandmother also came from Modena. She spoke Italian with me when I was a child. For a while I even spoke it better than French.”

  “I always thought you were a mongrel,” Laurent muttered loudly enough for me to overhear. I swung around to him, accepting the challenge.

  “What did you say?”

  “ Ça suffit! I don’t have time for this. You can quarrel later.” Réal brought the tiff to an abrupt close. Réal is deputy to Fouché, the Duc d’Otrante and Minister of Police. He is a reasonable man but few choose to cross him and I wondered why Laurent had done so now. He is not usually so stupid, although his dislike of me has become an obsession lately.

  “Duval, drop what you’re doing and come with me. I need you.”

  “Just a minute!” Laurent was on his feet, his cheeks flushed with fury. Laurent is the nominal head of our section and has the responsibility of organising our activities. “Duval is working on an important job for me at the moment. He cannot be taken away. We are very busy.”

  He was lying. The work I was doing was both routine and boring, just as he likes it. He hates me being called away to do anything useful or more interesting. According to him, my standing in the Ministry is far too high already and I have the Minister’s ear. I don’t. Fouché doesn’t have favourites and Laurent should understand that by now.

  “I regret the necessity,” Réal said smoothly enough, “but my need is more pressing than yours. He won’t be away from his other duties for long.”

  “I shall complain.”

  Réal smiled. “The Minister will, no doubt, listen to your complaint with interest and record it. Duval, come with me, please.”

  Obediently I followed him out into the corridor, turning my head to hide my grin from Laurent. Anything was better than censoring people’s uninteresting letters.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked Réal.

  “A woman has arrived here in great distress. Whatever French she knows appears to have deserted her. She keeps babbling in what I think is Italian. The only word I understand is the Emperor’s name. I need someone to tell me whether she is saying something important or is simply raving. Can you do that?”

  “Probably. I’ll try anyway. Where is she?”

  “In my office. She was making too much noise to be left in the waiting room. Someone there might have understood what she said.”

  It is never a good thing for people to talk freely in the Ministry’s waiting room. It is often crowded and our clientele came from all walks of society, including veterans from the Italian wars who could possess at least a smattering of the language. That could be dangerous if this woman had something important to tell us and our visitors rarely brave the Ministry for trivial matters.

  We climbed up the stairs to the anteroom of the Minister’s office, where Réal works. As we opened the door, I heard the soft sound of a woman weeping. She was not noisy now, but still clearly distressed. The girl, for she was little more, lifted her head at our entrance. I blinked as I looked at an exquisite face, her dark eyes drenched in tears. I stepped towards her.

  “Signorina?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Do you speak my language, Signor?”

  “Yes, although I am a little out of practice. What is your trouble? Can I help you?”

  “I will leave you alone, Duval,” Réal said and I caught a note of relief in his voice as he hurried out. “Find me when you are finished.” He closed the door behind him, glad to escape from the weeping woman.

  “Tell me.”

  For a second or two the woman sat still, wringing her hands, almost as if she was afraid to speak now the moment had arrived.

  “What is your name?” I asked gently.

  “Maria Carla Contini.”

  “Well, Signorina Contini, I am no ogre to eat you up for my dinner. What troubles you? I will help you if it is possible. Are you new to Paris?”

  “Yes, Signor. I arrived yesterday.”

  “Have you made a long journey?”

  I kept asking her easy questions in the hope she would relax and tell me her story. In some small way her eyes reminded me of my little daughter’s when she has been naughty. I would not like to see Marie-Aimée in such distress.

  “All the way from Milan.” She sighed.

  “Why did you come?”

  “To see the Emperor.”

  “Good heavens, why?”

  “I am an opera singer, Signor. People praised me once upon a time. I used to sing at La Scala; small parts, but I was told that I would soon sing the better ones. Then I fell sick. After three months I recovered but my voice had lost its timbre so I can no longer sing with such a famous company. I had to leave and I do not know any other way of life. Singing is the only skill I possess to earn my living, Signor.”

  “What a pity. I am very sorry for your trouble, Signorina, but how does your situation affect the Emperor?”

  “For myself I would not care, but I cannot go back to my parents because of my son.” She spoke as if she had not understood my question. “Because I wasn’t married, Papa refused to let either of us into his house. That is why I came here. I would like Marco to meet his father. I also want to ask for his support. Marco is clever. He deserves more in life than I can give him alone.”

  “And Marco’s father is?” I asked softly.

  “General Napoléon Bonaparte, the Emperor.”

  “What?” My startled word cut through the air like a knife. “But he has no children.”

  Everyone knows how badly the Emperor wants a son of his own. The Empress has a son and a daughter from her previous marriage but they say she has never quickened since she married Napoléon. Certainly, no baby has been born to them. Although Napoléon is reputed to have numerous mistresses, none of them has borne his child. If one had, we would certainly know about it in the Police.

  “He has mine,” the girl stated proudly.

  “But how? When?”

  “In Milan, before the battle of Marengo. He was First Consul then, not Emperor.”

  “I thought Grassini was his mistress at that time. He brought her back with him to Paris. I fought at Marengo and I remember hearing her sing at La Scala.”

  “He loved me first, but she took him away from me. He is not the sort of man to be content with one woman for long. I was in the same company as Guiseppina but she was the Prima Donna and I was only a member of the chorus. Napoléon and I had three beautiful days together until he left me. He did not bring me to Paris, but he made love to me nevertheless. I was a virgin before I knew him.”

  My expression must have changed because she frowned.

  “It is true what I am telling you. I do not lie. He was my first.”<
br />
  “Signorina I want to believe you, but it is exactly what any woman in your position would say. How can I know that your son is his?”

  I thought that would be the end of the interview; that she would dissolve into tears again and I would be able to escort her to the door. She surprised me. Instead of fresh hysterics, she smiled and said with confidence in her voice,

  “You have only to look at him, Signor. He is the image of his father.”

  She took a miniature portrait out of her reticule. It was a crude thing, painted on a piece of wood, but the artist had caught the young boy’s piercing gaze with a master’s hand.

  I gasped when I saw it. The expression on the child’s face was identical to the man’s as I remembered it from the time when I served under him in Italy.

  “He is very like the Emperor is he not?”

  “As he was then, not as he is now.”

  The Emperor has changed over the years. He is no longer the half starved Revolutionary general with the untidy hair and restless eyes. Napoléon, by the grace of God Emperor of the French, has become stouter and his hair line is receding. Yet the boy had his look, no doubt about that. What was I to do now?

  I swore softly to myself. “How old is your son?”

  “Marco is four, Signor.”

  I did a bit of rapid calculation. Marengo had been fought in June 1800. Today was the 26th of May 1805. It was possible, no way to prove it. Enquiries would have to be made in Milan and in the place this girl came from, but not by me. We had spies everywhere, especially in Italy where our borders touched the Austrians’. If her story was true and her affair with the Emperor was known, the advent of this child was bound to cause trouble throughout the court. The Empress certainly wouldn’t like it, for it would demonstrate that her husband was fertile and the fault of their childlessness was hers. She was growing older and presumably the end of her childbearing days was almost upon her. Whatever happened though, I would not be the one who had to decide what was to be done. My task was merely to gather information, for which I was grateful. So I asked,

  “What exactly do you want me to do, Signorina?”

  “If you please, make it possible for me to talk to the Emperor and show him his son.”

  “I’ll try, but I cannot promise you that he will agree. Other ladies have claimed such things before but, to my knowledge, he has never acknowledged any of their children.”

  She sat up straight then she smiled. “He will acknowledge mine.” She fumbled in her dress and brought out a small bracelet set with cameos. “Show him this. He gave it to me. He used to call me ‘Cara’, a play on my name. We made love in the garden of a villa where nightingales sang. Perhaps he will remember. It was a very special time and place.”

  For her, not necessarily for him, I thought. He must have enjoyed many such nights as the conquering hero with all of Lombardy at his feet.

  “Signorina, with respect, the Emperor may have forgotten. A lot has happened to him in the years you been apart. Your best means of attracting his interest is the portrait of your son. Would you lend it to me?”

  “No, I am sorry. It is the only likeness of him. It is precious to me.”

  “I would take the greatest care of it.”

  For a moment she hesitated and then she shook her head. “I cannot part with it. You might be careful, but the people you show it to may not be. I could not bear to lose it.”

  “I understand.” I thought hard. Without the portrait there was little possibility the Emperor would consent to see her. Too many women had tried before. Small enough chance in any case, but the portrait would be the deciding factor, I felt certain. Then a thought struck me.

  “What if I could get it copied?” I asked her.

  “You can do that?”

  I nodded. “Come with me, please.”

  I led her out of the building and down several streets.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the home of a man called Rougier. He isn’t a nice man but he is a very good artist. We use him sometimes to sketch the faces of suspects. I’ll ask him to copy your picture, then you can keep the original and the copy can be shown to those who need to see it.”

  “That is a wonderful idea, thank you.”

  Rougier lived in a grubby little room at the top of a tall and filthy building. We climbed several flights of malodorous stairs to reach it. I pounded on the flimsy door, hoping that the man was in. He took his time answering and I was about to turn away when I heard his feet shuffling towards us.

  “Rougier, it’s me, Duval.”

  “Is it now? What do you want?”

  “Open up and I’ll tell you.”

  “Pay me first for the last job I did for you.”

  “If you don’t open this door I’ll break it down,” I threatened. “Besides I have a franc for you to do some work for me today.”

  The door opened a fraction. I saw his eye and part of his face behind it.

  “Show me your money first.”

  I sighed but I pulled a coin from my pocket and held it under his nose. His hand came out to snatch the money.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said, whipping the coin away and putting it back in my coat. “Work first, money afterwards. I won’t cheat you. I never have and you know it.”

  “Come in then.”

  We followed him into the narrow room. It smelled even worse than the last time I had been there, of old cabbage and unemptied chamber pots. Carla’s nose twitched, but she made no protest.

  “I wonder you can live in this reek,” I protested.

  “To each their own. I’m not as dainty as you. What do you want me to do for you then?”

  I nodded to Carla and she handed him the portrait of her son.

  “Two copies if you please. We will wait outside for you to finish.” I made to lead Carla away but she twitched herself out of my grasp.

  “No!” Carla went over to a chair, dumped its contents on the floor and sat down. “I’m not going anywhere without my picture. You go if you like.”

  I sighed and translated for Rougier’s benefit. “We’ll both stay then.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Rougier asked.

  “The painting is dear to me,” Carla replied and I translated for them both.

  Rougier nodded. “A fine boy. Yours?”

  “My son, Marco.”

  “I’ve only got paper, no wood to copy it onto. Will that do?”

  “That’s not a problem, better in fact.”

  Silence fell. I have always been surprised at the difference in Rougier when he is working. He concentrates and his fingers are clever. He works quickly too, for which I was profoundly thankful because I couldn’t wait to leave. It was less than half an hour before he had completed both copies. When he showed them to us, Carla said,

  “But you are a genius, Signor.” Again I translated.

  “You have done well.” I rolled up the drawings and produced the coin which, this time, I allowed Rougier to take from my hand.

  We made a hurried exit and I for one was delighted when we reached the street. It doesn’t smell particularly sweet but it was fresh compared to Rougier’s lair.

  “Rougier lives like a pig but he’s talented as you can see.”

  “I’m surprised he is so poor. In Milan he would make a lot of money painting portraits.”

  “He would in Paris also if he smartened himself up and stopped drinking. I don’t know his story but he’s lazy and I often find him drunk. We were fortunate today.”

  “What a pity to waste such talent, but what now, Signor?”

  “You keep your picture; I will take the copies back to the Ministry and show them to the relevant people. Where are you staying? I’ll come and tell you what has been decided.”

  “With some friends from Milan, who remember me from the opera. They are living at 36 bis Rue d’Amiens. Their name is Leone. They volunteered to look after Marco for me today, so I could come to see you. I must go back and r
elieve them.”

  “Then I hope to see you again soon, Signorina, when I have something to tell you.”

  “Thank you, Signor.”

  I wished her farewell. I thought of offering her money but she did not ask for any, so I did not. I have learned to suppress my charitable instincts since I started to work for the Police. There are so many villains around and some of them even have beautiful faces.

  Chapter 2

  I went to find Réal.

  “Another of them!” he exclaimed when he had listened to my story. “Bloody women, always wanting a share of the Emperor’s fortune. I hope you showed her out with a flea in her ear?”

  “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that this time.”

  An arrested look came over his face. “Oh?”

  “Look at this.” I unrolled one of the copies of the picture and gave it to him. He looked at it closely and then held it up against a portrait of the Emperor which hung on the wall. An old one fortunately, which showed him as a young man on horseback. We both studied it. The similarity was even more marked than I had realised.

  “Mon Dieu, but it must surely be a chance resemblance. They happen sometimes.”

  “Perhaps, but Carla insists the Emperor is her son’s father.”

  “She would. It’s ‘Carla’ now is it?”

  I could feel myself blushing. “I’m married as you know, but I have to call her something. Her name is Carla Contini. Her claim is possible. The boy, Marco, is four years old. The Emperor was in Milan at the right time to sire him.”

  “You think she’s speaking the truth?” Réal looked at me in amazement.

  “She might be. He had that affair with Grassini, if you remember?”

  “Who could forget her? Her voice was magnificent.”

  I smiled. “Her figure was magnificent too, which was more to the point I imagine.” Réal grinned. “This girl claims to have been in the chorus at La Scala then. She says the Emperor seduced her first and then left her for Grassini after a few days.”

  “That would be like him if she had no more than a beautiful face. He likes his women to possess some fire. Why has she waited until now to press her claim?”