by Claude Izner
‘Don’t mention it – they cost me nothing.’
‘Are you going to work, Monsieur Daglan?’
‘Yes, I’m going to write out the evening menus. It’s pretty straightforward. The taverners give the leftovers from lunch another name and, hey presto, tuna in sauce verte becomes tuna mayonnaise, tomatoes in butter sauce turn into stuffed tomatoes, and so on.’
Daglan slipped the old man a coin.
‘Here’s a little something for you, Père Clément. And don’t worry, you won’t need to hock any of your belongings while I’m around.’
‘Oh no, Monsieur Daglan, no charity, please!’
‘Charity, Père Clément? Do you want to hurt my feelings? The path of life is strewn with obstacles. Somebody helped me once – now it’s my turn.’
Friday 16 June
A builder with face and hair covered in plaster dust was passing the stables owned by the Debrise Brothers, a stone’s throw from Église Saint-Denis-de-la-Chapelle. He stopped outside a bar and washed his hands at a pump where carters filled pails for watering their horses. The air smelt of fresh cheese and milk. The builder pulled down his cap, crossed the roundabout near the coal yard and walked down Rue Jean-Cottin, with its hotchpotch of buildings.
The builder passed a boy bouncing a ball against a fence. The boy gave him a knowing look and began chanting:
‘General Kléber,
At the gates of Hell
Met a Prussian
Who wished him well.’
The builder gave a faint nod, and entered the courtyard of a run-down building. Slowly, he climbed the stairs up several floors. On reaching the third floor, he took a pick from his pocket, slipped it into a keyhole without touching the escutcheon, found the latch and carefully lifted it.
The first room was cluttered, with a mirrored wardrobe, a table, a glass-fronted bookcase, four chairs and a stove.
The builder removed his shoes and began a meticulous search. The wardrobe contained only two jackets, a waistcoat, three pairs of trousers and two sets of bed linen. In the bedroom were an unmade bed, a pile of dirty laundry and a slop bucket. He lifted the mattress quickly. The tension in his face eased as his eye alighted on a brown briefcase in the middle of the bed base. He pulled a bundle of documents out of it and studied them closely. He froze in amazement.
‘Good God! The dirty…!’
His throat tightened; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to stifle his mounting rage. Stay calm, he told himself.
Outside the boy squawked:
‘Who left the people to rot?
That was Riquiqui’s lot.’
The builder drew back the curtain. Two women stood chattering in the courtyard.
He put everything back in its place and, checking that he’d left no traces, picked up his shoes and went out. After clicking the latch behind him, he started back down the stairs.
At the bottom, Frédéric Daglan tied his shoelaces, his hands shaking.
Saturday 17 June
At lunchtime there was no one left in the shops on Rue de la Paix. A wave of clerks and female workers headed for the cheap eateries on the Boulevards. Dressmakers, salesmen, seamstresses and clerks jostled one another, pushing past the cashiers from Crédit Lyonnais who were enjoying a smoke in the doorways of the restaurants where they would feast on boiled beef and bacon stew. A pair of constables eyed up the apprentice dressmakers in their white blouses, black skirts and coloured ankle boots forced onto the road by the crowds. A laundress paused in a doorway, took a croissant and a slab of chocolate out of her bag and began eating, oblivious to the bawdy comments of a housepainter sitting astride his stepladder. Gradually, the neighbourhood fell silent. The only people left were a news vendor sitting in her kiosk, a bread roll on her lap; a concierge sweeping the pavement vigorously; and a lad in an apron listlessly cleaning a jeweller’s shop window under the watchful eye of a constable.
A donkey and cart pulled up next to the constable. The driver, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, doffed his cap.
‘Excuse me, Constable, could you direct me to Bridoire’s Jeweller’s, please?’
‘It’s right here,’ said the copper, pointing at the shop window, which the lad in the apron had just finished cleaning.
‘Bother, it’s closed! I was supposed to deliver a crate here this morning. I won’t have time this afternoon. What if I leave it in the doorway? Nobody would dare steal it with you around…’
The constable paused, scratched his head then nodded.
‘All right, son. The shop assistants will be back at one thirty.’
Together they heaved the crate up against the shop door.
‘It weighs a ton. What have you got in there, lead?’ asked the policeman.
‘It’s marble. Much obliged to you!’
The cart moved off down Rue Gaillon, briskly overtaking two cabs and an omnibus, then turned into Rue de Choiseul.
Constable Sosthène Cotret discharged his mission with remarkable zeal considering he stood to gain nothing. In the meantime he allowed himself the pleasure of contemplating an amber smoking kit, which was displayed next to a gold-plated tumbler and a set of sapphire jewels. He pictured himself blowing smoke rings into Inspector Pachelin’s face, and imagined his superior gazing enviously at Madame Julienne Cotret wafting through the police station in a sparkling tiara.
He was so rapt in his daydream that he didn’t notice the same cart pulling up three quarters of an hour later. The young delivery man had to tap him on the shoulder, immediately apologising for his forwardness.
‘I only delivered the wrong blooming crate, didn’t I? My boss almost killed me! I’ve brought the right one this time. Would you mind helping me swap them over?’
They replaced the first crate with the second. Sosthène Cotret’s joints groaned under the strain and he cursed his bad luck for being allotted this beat.
‘Blimey, what a weight! Is this marble, too?’
‘Yes. The difference is this one’s red and the other one’s black. Much obliged, Constable.’
Sosthène Cotret cursed as he rubbed his aching back, knowing that his blasted sciatica would soon make him pay for his obliging nature.
Monday 19 June
Perched on his stepladder behind the counter at the Elzévir bookshop, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Joseph Pignot, bookshop assistant, was reading aloud from Le Passe-partout for the benefit of his boss, Victor Legris, who was paying little attention to what he considered a trivial news items.
‘…It was a tone thirty that the shop assistants of Bridoire’s Jeweller’s noticed the break-in. Curiously, only smoking accessories had been stolen. Why had the thieves ignored the diamond bracelets, precious pearls, watches and valuable silver and gold pieces? Equally puzzling is the fact that policeman Sosthène Cotret, who was on duty in Rue Daunou at the time, saw nothing – despite claiming that he didn’t take his eyes off the shop window. The authorities should supply him with a pair of spectacles!
When the second crate was opened it was found to contain nothing but sand.
According to Inspector Pachelin, the burglar must have hidden in the first crate, which had a removable side. He then cut a disc-shaped hole in the door of the jeweller’s just wide enough for him to enter the shop. Having grabbed the loot, he climbed back into the crate, replaced the wooden disc and covered his traces with putty and a paint containing drying agent. All he had to do then was wait until his accomplice came back to swap the crates.
‘Clever, isn’t it, Boss? Still, it seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a few cigar holders and pipes!’
Glancing up from his newspaper, Joseph was dismayed to see Victor absorbed in reading the order list.
‘You’re not listening.’
‘You’re wrong there, Joseph. I’m hanging on your every word. This crime reminds me of Hugo de Groot’s4 daring escape.’
‘Who?’
‘Hugo de Groot – a seventeenth-century Dutch lawyer who was imprisoned for life in Lo
evestein Castle. Escape seemed impossible. He was allowed books, which he devoured in such quantities that they had to be ferried in and out in a trunk. Two years into his incarceration, Hugo decided to try his luck. He climbed into the trunk and managed to escape. You see how reading brings freedom, Joseph.’
‘Yes…but I don’t see what that has to do with cigar holders?’
‘Nothing…Aren’t you supposed to be delivering a copy of Pierre Maël’s5 Honour and Country to the Comtesse de Salignac?’
‘I’ve already been there, and it wasn’t any fun! I see you have great faith in me! You’re getting a bit tyrannical, Boss!’
Joseph, furious, snatched up a pair of scissors and cut out the article, muttering to himself. ‘The boss should learn to hold his tongue. If this goes on much longer, I’ll be off to greener pastures.’
‘Believe me, Joseph, you’d soon tire of the countryside; nothing can compare to the thrill of the city. I’m sorry if I upset you – I didn’t intend to.’
‘You’re forgiven, Boss,’ Joseph decreed loftily.
‘Would you like to see the gift Mademoiselle Iris and I have chosen for Monsieur Mori’s birthday?’
‘When is it?’
‘The twenty-second.’
‘How old will he be?’
‘Fifty-four. You’re invited to the little gathering.’
‘I shan’t be going, and you know why. What are you giving him?’
‘A rare volume on Japan.’
‘Are you trying to make your adoptive father homesick? How long is it since he left, twenty or thirty years? He should take his daughter on a pilgrimage. They’re very strong on loyalty over there!’
‘A little more respect for Mademoiselle Iris, please, Joseph. She hasn’t been unfaithful to you.’
‘I’m only pointing out that your half-sister’s European side has made her frivolous.’ Joseph added, bitterly, ‘And anyway, what’s keeping me here?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! All you do is whine and moan and feel sorry for yourself! Show a bit of spirit, for goodness’ sake! Don’t give up at the first hurdle! I’m sure she loves you and is full of remorse; she never stops saying so, you great dolt!’
Victor composed himself then paused before adding, ‘Jojo, I hope that you two haven’t…er, well, you know, the birds and the bees and the butterflies…’
‘No, Boss, we vowed not to give in to our animal instincts before marriage and, if you want the truth, I regret it,’ replied Joseph.
He looked at Victor with a strange expression then burst out angrily, ‘If it had been you, if Mademoiselle Tasha had behaved like that, you would have had fifty fits, with your suspicious nature!’
‘Me? Suspicious?’
Shocked and horrified, Victor threw his arms up to heaven, ready to swear that he’d cured himself of his bad habit, when the doorbell tinkled.
Blanche de Cambrésis swept in. The lace trim on her dark-red pleated dress snagged on a pile of Émile Zola’s Doctor Pascal, recently published by Charpentier and Fasquelle, bringing it crashing to the floor. Victor gathered up the books while his visitor remarked on how cramped the shop was.
‘We remove the chairs, replace the desk with a pedestal table and still the battle-axe isn’t satisfied,’ muttered Joseph, who was hiding behind a wall of quarto volumes.
‘Is it any good?’ asked Blanche de Cambrésis, whose haughty expression made her look like a nanny-goat.
‘Tripe, Madame, utter tripe. How may I help you?’ Victor enquired in a conciliatory voice.
Unable to bear it any longer, Joseph made a dash for the back of the shop where he vented his anger.
‘Just listen to him fawning. He probably expects me to grovel at his sister’s feet, though he wasn’t exactly keen on our engagement in the beginning, any more than Monsieur Mori. But now the tables are turned, they can’t wait for me to marry her and put a stop to all the gossip. Even Maman has turned against me. It’s not fair!’ he muttered, dusting off the coats-of-arms on the backs of a set of hardbacks.
The touch of leather in his hands calmed his rage. Images of the not so distant past flashed painfully through his mind. How fleeting his joy had been back in February when his bosses had not only celebrated his engagement to Iris but given him a rise. Since then he’d been earning one thousand six hundred francs a year. This allowed him to put aside a substantial sum as he and Iris would be taking over Monsieur Legris’s old flat above the bookshop. Joseph had been keen to move in as soon as possible, but had said nothing to his future wife, who appeared not to share his need for independence, and was still very attached to her father.
And then Mademoiselle Tasha, whom he so admired, had taken it into her head to paint Iris’s portrait! How was he to know it would be the cause of such strife? Accordingly, he’d no more objected to his fiancée posing for her than he’d tried to dissuade her from taking twice-weekly watercolour lessons with Mademoiselle Tasha’s mother, Madame Djina Kherson. The latter had recently emigrated from Russia via Berlin and thanks to Monsieur Legris was now living in Rue des Dunes, near Buttes-Chaumont.
March had been taken up with preliminary drawings. Iris could talk of nothing else, to the point where Monsieur Mori had nicknamed her ‘Mona Lisa’. And then one day a painter friend of Mademoiselle Tasha’s, the conceited Maurice Laumier whom Monsieur Legris had never liked, had seen one of her sketches on an easel. He had praised her artistic progress and the model’s beauty. Who was she? Mademoiselle Tasha replied that she was Victor Legris’s half-sister. Maurice Laumier had used the age-old method of the lightning strike – his main weapon surprise, his lure throwing himself on his quarry’s mercy. He had approached her hat in hand.
‘Mademoiselle, I don’t usually accost young ladies in the street, but when I saw you coming out of my fellow artist Tasha Kherson’s house I couldn’t stop myself. You see, I’ve been commissioned to paint an exotic portrait of the Virgin Mary to exhibit at this year’s Salon, and when I saw those extraordinary eyes, that flawless complexion, your adorable face, I…’
Later on, in floods of tears, Iris had given her father, brother and fiancé a blow-by-blow account of the repulsive tale. She’d portrayed herself as a poor innocent girl, ambushed outside Tasha and Victor’s home by a man whose name she already knew. Why should she have mistrusted this attractive charmer in search of a model with Asian features?
At this point in the story, Joseph had had little difficulty imagining the young girl succumbing to the virility of the handsome dauber; he could understand why she would prefer this Don Juan to a hunchback like him; he could understand how from then on she’d woven her web of lies in order to be able to carry on her twice-weekly meetings with that libertine from Rue Girardon. Yes, he understood – he was a writer, after all – but he could not forgive!
The ‘poor ingénue’ had then explained to Djina Kherson that she must give up her watercolour classes and had begged her not to tell anybody. She wanted to surprise her fiancé. She’d had no difficulty believing her own lies: she would buy Maurice Laumier’s portrait as well as Tasha’s and make a gift of them to Joseph as a mark of her undying love!
Joseph did not want to know what had really taken place in the notorious womaniser’s studio. According to Iris, after four or five sessions the painter had stolen a kiss, and two or three weeks later he’d taken liberties that had earned him a slap. Finally, towards the middle of May, when she had confused her dates and turned up at Laumier’s studio on the wrong day, he had appeared at the door in shirt-tails and declared his love for her. At that very moment, the door separating the studio and the bedroom had opened to reveal a totally naked woman. The shrew had bombarded Iris with insults, which she was too polite to repeat, unless she washed out her mouth with soap and water afterwards.
She had confessed everything to Joseph and begged his forgiveness. She’d been so filled with remorse that even Euphrosine Pignot, outraged by her son’s heartlessness, had leapt to her defence, growling, ‘Men! Scoundrels
the lot of them!’
Joseph had been unbending. He announced that he was postponing their wedding date, set for the end of July, indefinitely. For the past six weeks, Iris, in a state of despair, had shut herself away on the first floor; Kenji was giving his assistant the cold shoulder and Victor was playing go-between. As for the guilty party, when questioned by Mademoiselle Tasha he had cynically summed up events in a mocking voice.
‘What do you expect, my dear? She’s a very pretty girl; what man wouldn’t want to have his way with her? A shame she showed up unexpectedly and Mimi laid into her!’
Blanche de Cambrésis pursed her lips and took her leave of Victor Legris after purchasing a novel she had delightedly unearthed by Arsène Houssaye. Joseph waited until she had left before emerging from his hiding place at the very moment that Kenji Mori descended the stairs. The two men pretended not to notice one another.
‘I have an appointment with Dr Reynaud,’ Kenji announced glumly.
He surreptitiously touched the bust of Molière on the mantelpiece above the hearth for luck, and fired a question at Victor.
‘Tell me honestly, Victor, do you think I’m shrinking?’
‘We’re all subject to the laws of gravity. What’s the matter with you?’
‘It’s my back.’
Oblivious to Joseph’s presence, they began discussing their health before moving on to ‘poor Iris’s’ state of mind. All that was missing was the tea and muffins!
‘Aren’t you lunching here?’ Victor asked. ‘Euphrosine has made celery and turnip croquettes.’
‘No thank you, really,’ said Kenji. ‘I’ll see you this evening – wish me luck.’
