For the King (10 page)

He rose, seized the ewer on the dressing table and sat astride the bidet. The cool water flowed down his stomach, washing away the slickness, the smell, the memory of love. He gathered his clothes and dressed in haste.

“When will I see you again, Roch?” she asked.

“As soon as you can make time for me, dearest. I too need you. Send me a messenger, and I will try my best to come here, even if I can only spare a few minutes.”

He bent to kiss her cheek lightly and cast a last look at her before closing the door gently.

14

R
och continued questioning hordes of self-styled witnesses, reviewing reams of letters. Most information was worthless. Jeanne, the street vendor who had accompanied poor Marianne Peusol on the night of the attack, confirmed Captain Platel’s description of the man with the gold spectacles, without adding anything new. Roch wrote his daily reports to the Prefect, who seemed content with them. Or if he was not, he kept his thoughts to himself, which was the same, or even better to Roch.

His colleagues now risked cautious glances in his direction. If nothing worse happened to him, in the course of a few days, they might be emboldened enough to acknowledge him once again in the corridors.

Sleet had been falling on Paris all day, and the carcass of the little mare, whose description had been posted all over Paris, had been moved from the courtyard to an unheated room on the ground floor.

A guard knocked at the door of Roch’s office and poked his head in.

“There’s a grain merchant waiting for you, Citizen Chief Inspector. A Citizen Lambel. He says he used to own that horse downstairs.”

Roch ran down the stairs to join Lambel, a thin man with shrewd little eyes, set deep in a wrinkled, leathery face. The grain merchant took a step backwards when a guard pulled away the oilcloth that covered the carcass. In spite of the cold, the stench of decomposition was now sickening.

“That’s a pity,” said Lambel, shaking his head sadly at the remains. “A good little mare. But then she wasn’t worth 200 francs, even with the cart.”

“So you used to own this animal?” asked Roch.

“Yes, I’d had her for five years. That is, until the 26th or 27th of Frimaire last, I don’t remember which. That would’ve been the 16th or 17th of December, right? I’m always losing my reckoning with the new calendar.”

“You are not alone, Citizen Lambel. How did you come to sell this mare?”

“Brunet, my neighbor, brought me a man who was looking to buy a horse and cart. And at the time mine were stopped right in front of my shop, so I showed them to the man. He was a stallholder, he said, he sold cloth at fairs and he needed a cart to take his wares across the country. I hadn’t thought of selling the horse before, but then he offered me 200 francs, plus six francs
pour boire
, as a tip.”

Lambel pointed at the carcass. “That’s a pretty high price for a horse like this one, that wasn’t so young as it used to be. And it’d been due for a shoeing for a while. So I went inside the shop to talk to my wife, and she said that if some ninny wanted to buy the horse for 200 francs, I’d better sell it fast, before he changed his mind. So I went back to the man and we shook hands. He gave me a gold
louis
as earnest money. An’ the next day he returned with the rest of the price, and we spent the six francs
pour boire
over a few pints of wine at the tavern. I invited my neighbor Brunet along. That was no more’n he deserved, mind you, ’cause he was the one who’d brought the man.”

“Did the man tell you his name, Citizen Lambel?”

“I asked him, but he pretended like he didn’t hear me, and I didn’t press him. I didn’t want him to change his mind about buying the horse, specially for 200 francs. Still, I’m curious.
Always poking your nose in other people’s business
, like my wife says. So I was itching to know more ’bout that man. After he’d drunk his fill at the tavern, I asked him, innocent like, where he lived, and he said he stayed with his sister.”

“Did he tell you his sister’s name, or her address?”

“I asked, of course. But he looked like he felt a bit silly for telling me about his sister. Like he’d sobered up all of a sudden. So he wouldn’t tell me no more about her after that.”

“And what was the man like?”

“Oh, he was no beauty, that’s for sure. Short, fat. With a big round face.” Citizen Lambel pulled his arms away from his slender body and puffed his usually hollow cheeks to mimic the man’s appearance. “And a flat nose, like he’d run into a wall. And a scar that pulled on his eyelid, the left one. Around forty years of age, I’d say. He had curly hair, and he wore it powdered, which I found mighty odd for a stallholder. And he wasn’t dressed like one either, at least the firs’ time I saw him. He had a dark blue coat, and yellow breeches, tied around the knees with ribbons. And stockings that had stripes that went up and down, and he wore laced shoes and a round hat. Fancy, he looked, but vulgar at the same time, if you catch my meaning. To tell you the truth, Citizen Chief Inspector, I wouldn’t have liked him half as much if he hadn’t been so fond of parting with his money.”

This seemed to fit the description of François Carbon, alias Short Francis, in the Minister’s note. “You are very observant, Citizen Lambel,” said Roch. “I am sure this is not all you have noticed about that man.”

“True, I don’t keep my eyes inside my pockets, so to speak. I can tell you the man snuffed tobacco. From a small wooden snuffbox. Round, it was. There was a fine picture of a horseman on it, with a sword at his side. My wife said it looked like the King of England, but I asked her:
How d ’you know, woman? You clapped your eyes on the King of England yet?
You see, I don’t like telling things when I ain’t sure.”

Lambel paused to catch his breath. “But when the short man came back the next day, he was dressed like a stallholder that time, in a blue jacket. He even told my wife that he’d paid ten francs for it. A vas’ deal of money it is for a jacket like that, if you want my opinion, Citizen Chief Inspector. But I kept mum ’bout it, ’cause he didn’t ask my opinion, did he? And I reckoned it’d be foolish of me to give him ideas like he was paying too much for things. Then he said he wanted to buy a bushel of peas and another one of lentils, and he needed a barrel as well to keep them. I charged him twice the price for the whole thing, but he didn’t say nothing ’bout it. If a man likes to spend his money freely, it’s his business, eh, Citizen Chief Inspector?”

“Exactly, Citizen Lambel. I don’t see that you did anything wrong.”

The man shook his head with satisfaction. “Aye, that’s the way me and my wife see it too. I asked the man if he had any place to keep the horse and cart, ’cause I could rent him my own shed, where I’d kept them. I liked his custom, see. But when he took a look at my shed, he said it wouldn’t do ’cause it didn’t lock. He said you don’t feel at home in a place that hasn’t a good lock. Then he said he needed to get a cover for the cart. I told him Brunet could make one. I owed Brunet a good turn, see, for bringing me such a fine customer.”

“And Citizen Brunet made this cover?”

“Oh, yes, but he told me later that the man wasn’t happy ’cause it was too short. Brunet’d made it like usual, but the man wanted it to go down to the hubs of the cart, or else his wares’d be spoiled by the rain. Brunet’d never heard of a cover needing to go down so low, and me neither, but he didn’t say nothing ’bout it, and he made the cover fit the way the man liked.”

“What kind of cover was it?”

“A tarpaulin. A plain gray tarpaulin.”

“Was it the last you saw of the short man?”

Lambel sighed. “Yes. A pity, ’cause I wish I’d more customers like that.”

“So where did he take the horse and cart?”

“That I don’t know. Some place with a good lock, I reckon.”

Roch ordered the guard to replace the oilcloth onto the carcass. Lambel cast a last look at the horse. “When you think he’d promised to take good care of her!” Squinting, he turned to Roch. “Say, Citizen Chief Inspector, about that reward of 2,000
louis
that’s posted all over town?”

“Well, Citizen Lambel, you have provided very helpful information. Once the guilty parties are brought to justice and convicted, I encourage you to apply for the reward. You certainly deserve it.”

Roch grinned happily at Lambel. Things were taking a hopeful turn. Fouché, in his note, had pointed Roch in the correct direction: the man nicknamed Short Francis was indeed involved in the Rue Nicaise attack. And he was a Chouan. This meant that Roch, whatever the Prefect said or thought, had been right to suspect the Royalists. Now he was vindicated. But what a pity the grain merchant’s shed did not lock!

Now the carcass of the horse had run its course. Roch was not sorry to have it leave the Prefecture for one of the veterinary pits outside the city limits. There stood the shops of the
boyautiers
, the men who skinned the carcasses and sold the bowels to makers of musical instruments. But the belly of the little mare had been blown away by the explosion days before it reached the pit. Her innards had been denied the ultimate grace of finishing as the strings of a fiddle.

15

R
och felt that he deserved the luxury of a lunch with someone who was not a fellow policeman or a witness. He decided to call on his friend Mulard, a painter and for many years a faithful patron of the Mighty Barrel. Old Miquel liked the fellow and regularly forgave his debt to the tavern.

Now Roch crossed over to the Right Bank by way of the Pont-Neuf and turned in the direction of the Louvre. It was now called a
museum,
and the King’s collections had been opened to the public after the fall of the Monarchy. The inner courtyard was occupied by temporary constructions where painters’ studios were housed. Roch winced at the smell of urine as he walked by the latrines that had been built against the blackened walls of the former palace.

Roch pushed the door to the construction occupied by the studio of the famous painter Jacques-Louis David, under whose direction Mulard practiced his art. Two of the master’s best-known works,
The Oath of the Horatii
and
Brutus
, each occupied one of the walls. A male model, clothed in an antique drapery, was seated on a sort of dais, his eyes raised to the heavens. Spare furniture and plaster mannequins were stored in a corner of the room, painted a drab greenish gray. A dozen young men and a woman were gathered there. A male student suddenly burst into song:

It had been written as a war song for the Republic’s armies in the fight against the Chouans. Apparently diverse political opinions were represented in David’s studio, for some students joined in heartily, while others greeted the song by jeers and whistles.

Roch spotted Mulard in his threadbare coat. The painter cut a conspicuous figure, with his fiery beard that contrasted with his darker, unkempt locks. Not many people in Paris, save a few artistic types, wore facial hair. Apparently oblivious to the uproar, Mulard was applying touches of his brush to two life-size figures, outlined in chalk and already partially painted against a blank background divided into a grid. Next to him sat a young woman in a black bonnet and an elegant pelisse lined with sable. She too seemed unfazed by the song. She was drawing on a sheet of paper resting on a portfolio on her lap.

“Ah, Miquel,” cried Mulard. The commotion died down, allowing conversations to resume. He turned to the young woman. “Please, Madame de Nallet, allow me introduce my friend Roch Miquel. I say
friend
, in spite of his rather unfortunate profession. He is Chief Inspector at the Police Prefecture.”

Roch bowed slightly. He knew Madame de Nallet by name. A
ci-devant
noblewoman, a society lady. Blanche had on occasion mentioned her in connection with various parties. Though her features were not regular, Madame de Nallet had a small, delicate figure and fine brown eyes. She smiled pleasantly and inclined her head.

“Madame de Nallet has been my pupil for over a month now,” continued Mulard. “She wishes to improve her skills at painting flowers, and already shows much talent for it.”

Roch pursed his lips. Flowers, of all things! This woman was not there to learn history painting, or to become a portraitist. Of course she was rich, she did not need the money. Her artistic ambitions must be limited to painting fans, screens and knickknacks to decorate her salon and display to rapturous friends. But Roch understood that Mulard was poor, and needed the fee this fair student could afford to pay.

“No disrespect to my friend Mulard,” Roch asked Madame de Nallet, “but why did you not seek Citizen David himself as an instructor?”

“Oh, he was the one who referred me to Monsieur Mulard. Monsieur David, much to my regret, does not take any students who wish to specialize in light subjects. I am nevertheless fortunate, for he visits here every day and kindly offers me his guidance.” She smiled at Mulard. “It is already a great honor to be allowed to work in the Master’s studio, under the direction of one of his pupils.”

“The honor is all mine, Madame,” said Mulard. “And, if I may be so bold, the pleasure as well. Madame de Nallet’s company and conversation are a welcome change here. Before you arrived, Miquel, she was telling me of her brother. His name has just been removed from the list of the émigrés.”

Roch inclined his head slightly. “My congratulations, Citizen Nallet.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The young woman was flushed with evident pleasure. “My brother left France in 1792. He used to fight in the army of the Princes, but now he can return safely to Paris. I expect him any day. Can you imagine that it has been eight years since I saw him? I have missed him so!”

Roch’s disdain for the young woman gave way to a warmer feeling. “I do wish you and your brother joy, Citizen.”