For the King (21 page)

Piis put one of his hands upon his chest, holding the sheet at arm’s length with the other.

“
Oh, Photis, cruel Photis, thy charming name—
” he began.

“
Photis
?” scoffed Roch. “Like that little minx of a maid in
The Golden Ass
? Where did your paramour get a name like that?”

Piis knit his brows. “
The Golden Ass
? Now that you mention it, yes, there might be a character by that name in it.”

“And do you remember what that Photis does in
The Golden Ass
?”

“I must have forgotten,” said Piis.

“Well, I remember that novel fairly well because it was the only time I found reading Latin enjoyable. The book had been smuggled into Veau’s Academy by one of my schoolmates, who had stolen it from his father’s library. So, for your information, Photis is a luscious little hussy who shows the narrator a delightful time in bed, then turns him into a jackass. Hence the title. Beware, Piis. The same could happen to you. Only without the delightful time in bed.”

Piis bit his lip. “Well, you see, Miquel,
Photis
is not my beloved’s real name. I made it up for this sonnet, and it worked for the rhyme. Also, her real name is too plain for poetry. In fact, it is too plain for her. I wish you could see her, Miquel. Such eyes! Such a complexion! And what a figure! Light and gracious and yet voluptuous . . .” Piis’s eyes wandered away for a minute. “And then, I don’t want to compromise her. She is married, you know. Imagine if this poem became an instant success. I wouldn’t want her
real
name on everyone’s lips.”

Roch refrained from remarking that perhaps his colleague overestimated that risk. Some of Piis’s comedies had made it on occasion to vaudeville stages, where they had garnered but lukewarm reviews, and his
Poésies Fugitives
, published one year ago, had already sunk into obscurity.

Who indeed cared a jot about Piis’s poetry? Roch looked into his colleague’s eyes and asked, “Say, Piis, how is it that you are again talking to me?”

Piis blushed. “Well, you see, everyone said that Fouché would be dismissed, and the Prefect was to be the next Minister, so—”

“Yes, I understand perfectly well why you
were
not talking me anymore. What puzzles me is why you have changed your mind.”

“Oh, that! I guess you have not heard the news then. Fouché had Bourmont arrested last night.”

“Bourmont? The
ci-devant
Count de Bourmont, the former Chouan general?”

“The one. But wait, that’s not all. The arrest took place at the bottom of the grand staircase of the Tuileries, just as Bourmont was leaving the First Consul’s private apartment.” Piis leaned towards Roch and shielded his mouth with his hand. “They say the First Consul and Madame Bonaparte have become friends with Bourmont and his wife, and that he was furious to have one of his guests arrested in that manner, practically on his doorstep. So Fouché was summoned to the Tuileries right away. But this morning, he is still Minister, and Bourmont is still in jail, in spite of everything.”

Roch stared out the window. This was the best news he had received since the attack. Fouché must have had proof positive of the involvement of the Chouans to provoke the First Consul in this manner. The Minister was now enjoying the sweet taste of revenge. The tide must be turning at last. None too soon, because Roch had begun to despair of finding the Rue Nicaise assassins within the remaining two weeks of the allotted time.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” continued Piis, “we shall go back to my little piece. Make sure you don’t interrupt this time. It breaks the rhythm of the verse, and you won’t be able to appreciate the flow of it.” Piis’s hand returned to his chest. He cleared his voice. “
Oh, Photis, cruel Photis—
”

“Now, Piis, have you considered the fact that maybe your Photis is in no way adverse to the police in general?
I
have never found it to be a hindrance. Perhaps she only says that because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. What if she simply doesn’t like you? Or maybe she can’t abide your name?”

Piis sighed. “Really, Miquel, you have no idea how many tasteless jokes circulate about it. Do you think my beloved heard any of them? I can’t imagine how anything so base could ever reach her ears, but perhaps you are right. Maybe if I adopted a nom de plume
. . .”

Roch slapped his colleague on the back. “And what of the literary fame you have already achieved under your
real
name? I am afraid it’s too late. No, Piis, don’t look any further: your beloved simply doesn’t like the fact that you work at the Prefecture. She says so herself, does she not? Perhaps you should glance at her police file after all. There must be something interesting there.”

Roch proceeded to his office without waiting for Piis’s answer.

31

R
och called all of his Inspectors to his office to discuss their progress and devise new ways of locating Saint-Régent and Short Francis. The date set by Fouché for Old Miquel’s deportation was but twelve days away now. Roch was more convinced than ever that the Mayenne Inn was at the heart of the Rue Nicaise conspiracy and silently cursed the Prefect for preventing him from posting his men there. Little as he liked it, he had no choice but to rely solely on a little beggar to watch the place.

The Rue Nicaise investigation did not absolve Roch of his usual duties. It was the day of the week when he was to visit the Palais-Egalité in his professional capacity. Blanche’s mother was not the only one to have opened a gaming salon there. The Palais-Egalité had been called the Palais-Royal before the Revolution, when it belonged to the Duke d’Orléans, cousin to the King. The Duke had conceived the idea, novel for a prince of the royal blood, to rent part of his palace to shopkeepers to supplement his already enormous income. Then, during the Revolution, the Duke had been guillotined for conspiring to make himself King in place of his cousin.

Yet the shops, unlike him, survived. The rents were twice as high as anywhere else in town, and often drove the tenants into bankruptcy, but much of the business of Paris was still transacted there. A multitude of shops around the pillared galleries sold shiny fabrics, dresses, flowers, jewels, ribbons, toothpicks, jars of rouge, clocks, trinkets, perfumes, embroidered garters and every other imaginable sort of merchandise.

The sound of raised voices burst from the cafés where the Stock Exchange brokers and their customers gathered. Music came from the Frères Provençaux restaurant, while the fragrance of roasting meat rose from the kitchens in the basement. Inside the vast dining parlor, huge mirrors reflected pyramids of pâtés, pastries, jellies, and even peaches and cherries, grown in hothouses during these winter months.

Military men in bright uniforms ambled in the galleries. Austria had been defeated at the battle of Marengo by Bonaparte himself last June, and again at Hohenlinden by General Moreau. The Holy Roman Emperor, Francis II,
the tyrant of Austria
, as Old Miquel called him, had been forced to beg for an armistice. Negotiations for a peace treaty had already commenced. The considerable territorial gains of the French Republic in Germany, Italy and the Netherlands would no doubt be confirmed. England would have to carry alone the burden of prosecuting the war against France.

Roch passed a bookshop that displayed, in the midst of an assortment of libertine prints,
Justine or the Misfortunes of Virtue
, the notorious novel by the
ci-devant
Marquis de Sade, and its counterpart,
The Anti-Justine
, by Restif de la Bretonne
.
Roch knew Restif, who was a clerk at the Ministry of Police and a prolific author of novels and pamphlets, including
The Pornographer
. The man claimed that his
Anti-Justine
provided the same kind of entertainment as Sade’s works, without indulging in their excessive cruelty. He had boasted to Roch, while presenting him with a free copy, that
only one
woman was cut into pieces and devoured in the
Anti-Justine
. Roch had never finished the novel. He had found the sexual exploits of the characters mildly entertaining at first, though a bit repetitive, but even a single dismembered woman was one too many for his taste.

Many houses of convenience were also located in the Palais-Egalité, but this was no Pull-Cock Alley. The presence of prostitutes was hardly noticeable during the day, when they remained in the bawdy houses. Roch made his rounds of those, and finally climbed the stairs that led to Citizen Renard’s establishment. Two ladies, yawning, greeted him without rising from the plump sofas where they rested. Both were young and pretty, and their rouge was tastefully applied. They wore no undergarments, and their dresses were so sheer that every detail of their bodies was revealed, from the pink-brownish rosettes of their breasts, down to their nether hair and the embroidered garters that tied their flesh-colored stockings. Roch took a moment to enjoy the sights before turning his attention back to the business at hand. Citizen Renard, a buxom woman of mature years, handed him her weekly purse.

“There, Citizen Chief Inspector,” she simpered. “Please be kind enough to send my respects to our dear Minister, as always. And did you know that we have a fresh piece? Arrived last week from the countryside. Would you like to meet her? I will go awaken her if you wish. Our patrons simply rave about her.” She pointed to the two reclining ladies, who smiled sleepily at Roch. “Unless you prefer Rose, or Fanny. Or both. Courtesy of the house, of course.”

Roch put the purse into his already heavy briefcase and took his leave, politely declining the bawd’s offers. Once he went back to the galleries downstairs, he passed the window of a jewelry store and stopped for a moment. He looked at delicate filigree earrings, at gold ornaments shaped like roses, cupids or birds. All lovely things, and he would have been happy to present Blanche with any of them. He was ready to push the door to the shop open, but reconsidered. He did not want to give her anything tainted by an association with the Palais-Egalité
.
In any event, the shop must specialize in trinkets destined to the whores upstairs. It was the last place in Paris to purchase a nuptial ring, even for a lady one could not marry.

He now had to call on Madame de Cléry, which he found still more disagreeable than all of his other visits to the Palais-Egalité put together. Blanche must have told her mother of her liaison with Roch, because ever since the older woman had introduced them, her flirtatious attempts had given way to the coldest of manners. Roch, without meeting her eye, was content to seize the purse she handed him.

He was done at last and looked up at the white, opaque sky, laden with a promise of snow. So he hailed a hackney as soon as he left the Palais-Egalité and drove to the Ministry. He had no wish to see Fouché, but Marain, the private secretary, as though expecting a request for an interview, pointedly informed him that the Minister was not there. Roch walked back to the Isle of the Cité. Now the first snow-flakes, plump and light, were dancing in front of his eyes. Roch hated snow and pressed ahead.

Shortly before reaching the Prefecture, on the Goldsmiths Embankment, he stopped in front of a shop window displaying a variety of silver platters, tea sets and ice buckets.
This
place might sell wedding rings. A bell rang cheerily when he pushed the door open. The shopkeeper, a comely young woman in a black silk dress, smiled graciously at him from behind the counter. He told her of his errand.

“Allow me to offer my congratulations, Citizen,” she said, her eyes lowered, as she pulled a tray full of nuptial rings.

Roch tried to examine the rings, but they all seemed the same. He pointed to one at random.

“A wise choice,” said the young woman. “Any other jewelry for the fortunate young lady? We have these bracelets, in three tones of gold. Quite the fashion these days, and very appropriate as a wedding gift.” She pointed at a case behind the counter. “And a silver porringer for the little ones to come, perhaps? You know that it is considered good luck to purchase it
before
the marriage.”

Roch felt his cheeks burning. Now this wedding ring business seemed sillier than ever. The shopkeeper was looking at him in an inquisitive manner, with a half smile on her lips.

“No, thank you, Citizen,” said Roch. “Just the ring, please.”

“Certainly.”

He noticed a large diamond on her finger as she weighed the ring on a goldsmith’s scale. She announced a price of thirty francs and put the jewel in a case.

“My congratulations again, Citizen,” she said, smiling. “You may find that you need something else before long. Do not hesitate to come and ask. Anytime.”

She pressed his hand slightly as she gave him the tiny parcel. He hastened to leave.

Roch was too preoccupied to give the elegant jeweler’s offers any consideration. He kept thinking of Blanche and her mother while walking the few dozen yards that separated him from the Prefecture. He remembered Piis’s words:
No man of honor would read his beloved ’s police file
. Perhaps Piis was right. Roch, until now, had never thought of doing such a thing, or even sought to discover whether there were any files at all at the Prefecture on Blanche, her husband or mother.

Yet now he felt that something was amiss. Instead of going straight to his office, he walked to the archives, where, as usual, he winced at the odor of musty paper. Indeed many files here dated from before the Revolution, for the archives of the old Police Lieutenant had simply been moved to the Prefecture. “Governments change, the police remains,” his colleague Henry liked to say.

Roch followed with his finger the shelves marked with the letter
C
. He saw a folio marked with the name
Cléry
and proceeded to pull it. He started when a tiny ball of gray fur, followed by a long pink tail, scurried away with a squeak. Roch had a peasant’s aversion for mice. He had already complained to Dozier, the archivist, about the damage the little pests wrought and had suggested the introduction of several cats.