by Claude Izner
‘Women! They’re all alike,’ grumbled Joseph. ‘Look at Monsieur Mori, wasting away because that cancan dancer Fifi Bas-Rhin went off to St Petersburg with her Russky archduke!’
‘Don’t you believe it, Jojo. I suspect he prefers his meat to the vegetarian regime imposed by my sister and has gone off to Foyot’s to enjoy escalope Milanese or tournedos in pepper sauce.’
Victor’s envious expression betrayed a strong urge to do the same as his adoptive father. However, at the thought of Madame Pignot’s wrath, he abandoned the idea.
Frédéric Daglan walked with his hands in his pockets and a case slung over his shoulder along the fortifications separating Paris from its suburbs. The outlying boulevards bordered by huts and wooden shacks spread out across the parched grass at the foot of the fortifications.6 The sky above Saint-Ouen was black with the smoke billowing over from the factories. Frédéric Daglan walked through the tollgate at Clignancourt. He always began his rounds at Anchise Giacometti’s bistro. Anchise was a fellow countryman who had given him a helping hand the day he had arrived at Gare de Lyon, penniless, jobless and with no prospects.
Frédéric was forty-three. He had warm memories of his father, Enrico Leopardi – a Garibaldian killed at the battle of Aspromonte in 1862. His widowed mother had emigrated to Marseilles, confident of a better future. She had sweated fourteen hours a day at an India rubber and gutta-percha factory on Avenue du Prado and had gone without in order to send Federico to school. The boy’s schoolteacher, Monsieur Daglan, was a good man, and had taught him reading, writing and arithmetic.
When his mother died of a heart attack, Federico Leopardi bought a train ticket to Paris, where he became Frédéric Daglan. He was just fifteen.
He was a rebel and a loner, full of care for the exploited and downtrodden, for the nobodies of the world. His job as a calligrapher served as a cover for his so-called criminal activities. He worked alone, undercover, occasionally soliciting the help of Theo, the nephew of Brigadier Clément, the park keeper. He never stole more than he needed to help his friends and to enjoy life and love. His philosophy was simple:
‘Faced with the sad fact that life is a vale of tears, I have chosen to prey on the rich rather than lose my self-respect begging at their table. Society is a jungle where the strong devour the weak and the moral of the story is that we all end up six feet under. That’s what I call liberty, equality and fraternity. I do nobody any harm, I simply cream off a tiny surplus. Besides, rich or poor, we can’t take it with us, not even what might fit through the eye of a needle.’
Only he was still very much alive, and in it up to his neck. The papers in the brown briefcase had left him in no doubt: he must go undercover and sort things out.
Le Piccolo run by Anchise Giacometti stood on the edge of the working area. It resembled a village inn with its blue-painted bar, checked tablecloths and rustic sideboard. Anchise Giacometti, a silent patriarch with a flowing moustache, presided over the bar while his wife, a tiny Calabrian woman as dark as an olive, ran the kitchen. At lunchtime, the restaurant filled up with market gardeners and employees from the toll office.
Frédéric Daglan greeted Anchise and sat down in the corner at an unlaid table. The landlord brought him a stack of oblong cards together with the lunch menu. Frédéric opened his calligraphy case, took out his bottles of ink, his pens and nibs and went to work. He carefully wrote out the names of the dishes on each card, separating them with an arabesque. He used fine script for the desserts and bold characters for the beef and cabbage stew. Anchise poured him out a tumbler of wine and went back to polishing his glasses.
Frédéric gulped it down in one.
‘Anchise, do you know somewhere I can hide out?’
‘Mother Chickweed’s, Porte d’Allemagne.7 Just say Anchise sent you.’
Chapter Two
Six o’clock in the morning, Wednesday 21 June
LÉOPOLD Grandjean lived with his wife and two sons on the fourth floor of a building in Rue des Boulets, near Place de la Nation. His rent was three hundred and ten francs a year, which included the door and window tax and the cost of the chimney sweep. In return, his three-room lodgings were equipped with running water and gas lighting. He had always loved reading. History, geography, science and literature – everything interested him. He could quote whole passages from Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Two lines from The Social Contract had influenced him in particular:
Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.
The fruits of the earth belong to everyone and the earth to no one.
On Sundays, he would take a stroll with his family along the fortifications and spend the day walking and setting the world to rights. Life was good.
His enamelling business was thriving. It was by no means a life of luxury and he occasionally had difficulty making ends meet, but everything about him suggested a relaxed and bohemian attitude towards life. Léopold had been an apprentice engraver then a porcelain painter. He adopted the attitudes of an artist and didn’t give a damn what his neighbours thought. His factory – a shed with a glass roof – stood at the end of Passage Gonnet in the shade of a lime tree whose dense foliage in summer was a haven for birds. Beyond it was a patch of wasteland where ragged children whooped and ran wild. The premises were divided into the factory proper and the sales room. Its shelves were filled with the most commonly enamelled objects of the day: sweet dishes, powder compacts, bowls, brooches, and pommels for canes and umbrellas. Once spring arrived, Léopold would get to his workshop at dawn in order to work on the more difficult orders. This time he had to produce a picture based on an icon; the task he’d set himself was complicated, but he felt confident that he would succeed. He began by making a quick, bold sketch.
‘Perfect. Now let’s fill in the detail.’
He added a finishing touch to his design then went over to a lathe, which had a copper plate covered in a first coat of clear enamel resting on it. He transferred the plate to a low table crowded with pots, paintbrushes, spatulas, and jars of gold and silver leaf. He cherished such moments of solitude as a respite from mass production and book-keeping; they were his secret moments of creativity. At thirty-nine, he still looked like a young man. Broad-shouldered and of medium build, he gave an impression of calm determination. Rarely did anything disturb his equanimity.
At this early hour, the workshop was bathed in an atmosphere of peace; even the chirping sparrows were scarcely audible. Léopold applied his colours, placing blobs of paste onto the lighter areas of the design then blending them gradually in the cloisonné sections. This preliminary task allowed his mind to wander freely.
If business went well, he’d buy a plot of land in Montreuil and grow peach trees; they’d give a good return. His two sons would take over – they were better off there than in a factory – and his wife would finally have the kitchen garden she’d always wanted.
A milk cart rattled down the quiet street, followed by the clatter of dustbins being hauled across the courtyard and wooden shutters banging. There was a sudden murmur, as though these noises had woken the sleeping neighbourhood. Léopold set down his brush. In half an hour his workers would arrive; it was time to snatch a cup of coffee. He whistled as he donned his jacket and battered hat, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
The Chez Kiki café stood on the corner of Rue Chevreul and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine surrounded by grocers, charcuteries and wine merchants. A steady flow of garrulous, sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed housewives streamed in and out of these shops lit by oil lamps. On his way to the bar, Léopold greeted Josette, the dark-skinned flower girl, back from Les Halles where she had stocked up her cart. He was feeling in his pockets for a match when a man sprang from nowhere and offered him a light. As Léopold thanked him, his smile suddenly faded. The man whispered something in his ear then stepped away, lowering his arm. Léopold fell backwards. He could see a flock of sparrows flying overhead, the façades of the buildings, the sky dappled with clouds…
His vision became blurred and his stomach throbbed. The last thing he heard before sinking into oblivion was a song:
But the cherry season is short
When two go together to pick
Red pendants for their ears…
Cherries of love all dressed alike
Hanging like drops of blood beneath the leaves.
Afternoon of the same day
‘Hell’s bells! What do you want: a juicy chop, or would you rather have thin broth?’ yelled a man dressed in breeches, stockings and a plumed hat.
The chambermaid felt her cheeks turn red. Tears blurred her vision. She began to curtsey and almost dropped her tray, causing a cardboard chicken and some wax pears to roll around precariously.
‘I-I don’t understand,’ she stammered.
‘And yet it is quite simple, my dear,’ the gentleman retorted. ‘If you want the juicy chop – in other words, success – you’ll have to serve Henry IV, alias muggins here, with a bit more panache. Wiggle the bits that matter, front and back! Then turn to the audience and say:
‘Although he’s good and kind and brave
Our sovereign’s nonetheless a knave.
‘I’m not asking for the moon! Stop snivelling…what’s your name again?’
‘Andréa.’
‘That’s a pretty name. Now, blow your nose, Andréa. We’ll win them over. Break for fifteen minutes.’
Edmond Leglantier, actor and director of Heart Pierced by an Arrow, a historical play in four acts, leapt down off the stage and went to join the actors playing Maria de Medici and Ravaillac sitting in the third row.
‘So, what do you think, children? Will the audience be impressed?’
‘The claque will applaud rapturously every time the actors come on, and I’m certain the play will be a success,’ Ravaillac assured him.
‘Let’s hope the gods can hear you…What rotten luck! How were we to know that two other plays about the same subject would be put on this summer? They’re already advertising The Flower Seller of The Innocents8 at the Châtelet and The Doll’s House9 at Porte-Saint-Martin! And you’re in the starring role!’
‘Me?’
‘Not you, you fool – Ravaillac! Including our one, that makes three. And there I was hoping to pull out all the stops for the reopening of Théâtre de l’Échiquier.’
Edmond Leglantier cast a dispirited eye over the Italianate auditorium whose refurbishment had plunged him up to his eyes in debt. He was staking everything on this production. If it was a flop, his creditors would be baying for his blood…Unless of course the swindle he was planning at the club paid off.
The stage manager stuck his head over the balcony.
‘Pssst! Monsieur Leglantier! Philibert Dumont is looking for you everywhere. I told him you were at home.’
‘What a nuisance the man is! I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled. Thanks anyway.’
‘Who is Dumont?’ asked Maria de Medici.
‘The author of the play and a terrible bore. On that note, I’m going to have a quick smoke and then we’ll rehearse Act III. Sharpen your sword, Ravaillac!’
As soon as Henry IV had left the auditorium, Andréa asked her two fellow actors, ‘What’s got into him? I’m not used to being spoken to like that!’
‘Well, you’d better get used to it. Monsieur Leglantier’s very tense these days,’ said Ravaillac. ‘He’s sunk every last penny into this theatre. It’s his pride and joy.’
‘But the theatre hasn’t even opened yet. Where does he get his money?’
‘A rich uncle or some shady business deals? How should I know? Apparently he’s sold a painting.’
‘I know where he gets it,’ said the buxom Maria de Medici. ‘At the gaming table. He goes at it with the same passion as good King Henry when he was seducing young maidens. Edmond personifies the two masks of classical theatre, laughing one minute, crying the next. If he’s splitting his sides, it means he’s winning at baccarat; if he’s grimacing, he’s been cleaned out the night before. Fortunately he laughs more often than he cries!’
Ravaillac was surprised.
‘I don’t know where he finds the time. He spends hours at the theatre ordering the wardrobe mistresses about, spying on the stagehands, pestering the actors and explaining Hamlet, Le Cid or Andromaque to the extras who couldn’t give a fig!’
‘Oh, he finds the time all right, don’t you worry! He’s as strong as an ox, despite being fifty. It’s common knowledge that he has several mistresses. The official one is Adélaïde Paillet. She gets two nights a week and, when he’s fulfilled his obligations there, his passion for cards takes him to the club on the Boulevard. He goes on gambling, promising himself he’ll stop as soon as he makes a big win. He’s been on a winning streak the past few nights, which means his purse is full and we’ll get paid.’
‘Does he never stop?’ asked Andréa.
‘He goes to bed at dawn and gets up at noon.’
‘You seem to know an awful lot about him, Eugénie,’ remarked Ravaillac. ‘Anybody would think you were privy to the maestro’s secrets…Pillow talk, perhaps?’
‘Isn’t Maria de Medici Henry IV’s other half, clever-clogs?’
A voice boomed, ‘Company on stage!’ and they scurried back to the boards where King Henry sat on high in an open carriage while some stagehands struggled to put up a backdrop representing Rue de la Ferronnerie, with its letter-writers’ and washerwomen’s shops.
‘Hey! Wake up, Ravaillac! Where’s your wig? You’re supposed to be a redhead. What on earth possessed me to hire such a ham! For heaven’s sake, you’re meant to cut my throat, not sit around jabbering with these ladies!’
The manager’s office was on the second floor, above the foyer. As soon as the rehearsal had finished, Edmond Leglantier hurried upstairs to change. He peeled off his false beard, smothered his face in cold cream, cleaned off the greasepaint and coloured his salt-and-pepper moustache with some makeup filched from Eugénie. He crooned as he buttoned his shirt:
‘No more gaming at the table
Ding dong! The horse is in the stable.
A fine, handsome role awaits me
A Don Diego or an Othello!
‘I can smell it. That fickle mistress fame will be mine! I’ll spare no expense, gilt chairs and electric lighting in the auditorium if you please! Who would dare question my luck? I shan’t be playing baccarat tonight, I’ll be playing the players, and it will be the performance of a lifetime!’
He took a bundle of shares from a drawer, and studied one of them. An elegantly crossed pipe and cigar holder framed in wreaths of smoke a text, which he read out pompously:
‘Public Company
AMBREX
Statutes registered with Maître Piard, Notary of Paris,
14 February 1893
ISSUED CAPITAL 1,000,000 francs
Divided into 2,000 shares of 500 francs each
HEAD OFFICE: PARIS
The holder is beneficiary of the share
Paris, 30 April 1893
Director Director
‘Perfect,’ he concluded, with a smile. ‘The artist has surpassed himself.’
He kissed the shares in the manner of a bashful lover.
‘You are ravishing, my beauties, decked out in all your finery. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar! Nothing reassures an investor more than seeing with his own eyes, in finely engraved copperplate, the gold mine that promises to make his nest egg grow. The gold mine in this case being these smoking accessories, which look every bit as authentic as a picture in a magazine – and people will believe anything they see in print.’
He counted out twenty-five share certificates, stored the remainder in a safe from which he took an equal number of cigar holders, and placed the whole lot in a briefcase. Then, standing before a cheval glass, he knotted his tie and declaimed in a quavering voice worthy of a member of the Comédie-Française, ‘Never will a better use be found for paper than converting it into hard cash or potential
dividends from shares in variform enterprises.’
The adjective so pleased him that he rolled the ‘r’s in an exaggerated fashion, and continued, ‘…Variform enterprises such as the intensive farming of knobbly trees in an as yet unexplored region of our colonies or the transformation of fossilised resin into pipes! Prepare for your entrance, Leglantier my friend, the performance is about to begin!’
The wide pavements of Boulevard de Bonne-Nouvelle were thronging with people running errands or idling at tables outside cafés. Edmond Leglantier checked that the sandwich men lugging the advertisements for Théâtre de l’Échiquier, which was tucked away down a quiet street, were doing their job properly.
He saw one of them parading back and forth in front of a building housing a general store. Another one was pacing up and down the esplanade outside the Théâtre du Gymnase, proud to be the focus of attention of the onlookers lolling on the benches. Satisfied, Leglantier continued on his way towards Boulevard Poissonnière.
It was when he reached Boulevard Montmartre that he noticed the fair-haired fellow in the light-coloured suit. He ducked into a urinal, his mind racing like quicksilver, and tried to gather his thoughts by softly chanting:
‘And slyly when the world is sleeping yet
He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies
And fashions golden buttercups to set
In woodland mazes.’10
He had seen the man before. First when he was leaving the theatre and then at the bar in Muller’s brasserie, not far from the table where the fat man had handed over the cigar holders and share certificates. He’d suspected nothing at the time, but now…
If he follows me, I’ll know for sure, he thought.
He walked out of the urinal and made straight for a barber’s shop where the window served as a convenient mirror. The man in the light-coloured suit had disappeared into the crowd.
A frantic wave of anglomania was transforming the neighbourhood into a little corner of London. Every shop was British, from opticians to hatters, not forgetting the tailors and bootmakers who all boasted the words ‘modern’ or ‘select’ in their signs. In contrast, the street vendors who pestered passers-by were unmistakably French.
