For the King (8 page)

Roch’s eyes were burning from fatigue, and he could not help yawning while taking one statement after another. He had almost abandoned any hope of garnering useful information when, well past midnight, a Widow Peusol, a street vendor, was shown into his office. The woman entered cautiously. She clutched her tattered skirts with both hands, her chest slightly bent forward in a half bow. At least here was a witness who was not full of her own importance and did not address him in a conspiratorial tone. He rose and offered her a chair, scratching his ear while he waited for her to speak.

“It’s my daughter, Citizen Chief Inspector, Sir,” she began, “my little Marianne. She didn’t come home two nights ago.”

Roch stared at the woman. “Do you mean the night of the attack? The 3rd of Nivose? You waited
two days
to report your daughter missing?”

The woman opened her mouth like a fish out of water and looked at him with a mix of fear and desperation.

“It’s all right, Citizen Peusol,” he continued in a softer tone. “I understand.” Indeed he knew that the poor preferred, sometimes with good reason, to limit their dealings with the police to a minimum.

“So I won’t be in trouble, Sir?”

“No. I guarantee it. Please tell me what happened to Marianne on the 3rd.”

“She left with her tray full of biscuits, like every day. I buy’m at the pastry shop, see, an’ then she sells’m on the streets for a
sol
more a piece. That’s not much, Citizen Chief Inspector, but at least this way she earns a bit of money. We’re so poor that more often’n not I worry we won’t have twelve
sols
pay next week’s rent. Then we’d be thrown out by the lan’lord an’ we’d end on the streets, abeggin’ for our bread . . .”

“Yes, Citizen Peusol. So where does Marianne usually sell her biscuits?”

“She goes stand by those barracks near the Pont-Royal—” The woman stopped suddenly and cast a worried look at Roch. “Scuse me, Sir, the Liberty Bridge, I should’ve said. You know, where the Hackneys’ Office used to be in the ol’ days. It’s a good place, with all the soldiers comin’ in an’ out. So she left with Jeanne, the girl nex’ door. An’ Jeanne told me that a man came to talk to Marianne.”

“A soldier?”

“No, Jeanne didn’t say it was a soldier.” Citizen Peusol wiped her eyes with a corner of her ragged apron. “He gave Marianne twelve
sols
if she’d come an’ take care of some horse. Jeanne saw him put a silver coin in Marianne’s hand. An’ she was so happy, and she followed him across the bridge, my poor little girl!” Citizen Peusol was now sobbing.

Roch sat up. “I need to talk to that Jeanne right away. What is her full name?”

“I can’t tell you. You’d arrest her. Then people’d say that I am nothin’ but a
moucharde
an’ that I cause trouble to the neighbors. I’d lose my good name.”

Roch sighed with exasperation. “Of course I will not to arrest Jeanne, but she must give us a description of that man she saw walking away with Marianne. Do you not want us to find out what happened to your daughter? How old is Marianne, Citizen?”

“She’s fifteen, jus’ like Jeanne.”

Roch shook his head. A fine idea it was to send two girls of fifteen to sell cakes in front of barracks! The man who had lured Marianne away could have been a pimp.

Roch remembered the day when Old Miquel had taken him to Rue Tire-Vit, Pull-Cock Alley. He was fourteen then, and had stared at the women, reeking of strong perfumes, and still stronger animal odors, the bodices of their garish dresses pulled down low enough to reveal their nipples. The whores, mistaking the older man’s purpose, had pointed out Roch to one another, giggled and called to them sweetly, enticingly. His father had given him a shove on the shoulder.

“Take a good look at these, son,” he had said. “Smell them. Infected with horrible diseases that’ll rot your privates. Leeches, all of them, waiting to take whatever money’s in your pocket.”

Old Miquel’s lessons were not lost on Roch. He had kept from that visit a distaste for prostitutes, though, as a policeman, he had learned how helpful they could be as informers. He was always dismayed to see yet another girl join the legions of Paris whores. Now he could picture young Marianne, her face painted white and red, clad in a soiled satin dress, peddling her allurements on Pull-Cock Alley.

“What does your daughter look like, Citizen Peusol?” Roch asked.

“Well, she’s red hair, an’ a big nose. An’ she’s very much marked by the smallpox. She was taken awful sick when she was nine.”

That settled it. Marianne would have been safe from any pimp. But the mention of red hair gave Roch a pang. He remembered the skull of the charred body lying in the middle of Rue Nicaise.

“An’ she’s a bit of a squint too,” continued Citizen Peusol. “God knows her brothers tease her enough about it, poor thing. They tell her one of her eyes says shit to the other.”

Now Roch felt his anger rising. Was Marianne chosen for the grim task of holding the horse’s bridle because of her looks? Would the criminals, those cowards who had run away to save their own skins, have sacrificed a prettier girl?

The Peusol woman joined her hands in a gesture of supplication. “What do you think happened to her, Sir? It can’t have been her on Rue Nicaise?”

“What was Marianne wearing that day?”

“Oh, that’s easy, ’cause she’s but one set of clothes. A skirt with blue an’ white stripes, an’ her gray woolen jacket. She’s grown much this year, so it’s quite a bit too small for her. An’ of course her blue kerchief on her head. We’re not rich, but I wouldn’t let my daughter out on the street with her hair uncovered.” The woman continued, her voice quavering. “So it can’t be her, eh, Citizen Chief Inspector?”

Roch sighed. This was not going to be easy. It never was. He rose and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“I am sorry, Citizen Peusol. You will have to be brave. Yes, actually, this seems to match the description of the girl some witnesses saw that night. It may indeed have been your daughter.”

The woman burst into a wail. “Oh, I knew it. I knew it, but I didn’t want to hear it.” She raised her eyes to Roch. “She was a nice, sweet girl. She’d never hurt anyone in her life. Why did they kill her? Can I see her? I want to see her. Jus’ one last time.”

Roch remembered the blackened, faceless remains of the girl. One of her arms had been discovered the day after the attack on a nearby rooftop. The other one was still missing. It was not a sight for a mother.

“To say good-bye to my little girl,” moaned the woman. “Please, Sir.”

Roch had to think of something very fast. “No, Citizen Peusol,” he said, “I cannot let you, as the next of kin, see her. It would be against the rules. Perhaps you have a relative who could come here to identify the body?”

The woman nodded, tears flowing down her face. “Well,” she said, catching her breath between two sobs, “there’s my brother . . .”

Roch opened the door and called to a guard to bring some liquor.

12

A
clerk brought Roch a note, left by a messenger who had hurried away without waiting for a response. It simply said:
Meet me this afternoon at three o’clock, dearest, dearest love, at the usual place. I know how busy you must be, but please try, just for me. I will be waiting for you.

Roch had barely caught any sleep since the Rue Nicaise attack, and he had not had much time to think of his next assignation with Blanche. For several months now they had met two or three times a week in a room above Citizen Bercelle’s millinery shop. He had last seen her on the afternoon of the 3rd of Nivose, the day of the attack.

Before Blanche, there had been other women, usually the wives of well-to-do merchants. Roch kept clear of maidens. A single moment of carelessness, of lust, of distraction, and he would be expected to wed a girl he did not even like.

Yet Blanche Coudert was not the same as Roch’s prior mistresses. For one thing, she was no shopkeeper’s wife. Old Miquel would have called her a
ci-devant
, the contemptuous name given to former aristocrats. Blanche had been educated in a convent, and her mother had been a noblewoman before the Revolution, though she never spoke of her father. Also Blanche was lovelier than any of Roch’s other mistresses, indeed than any other woman he had ever seen. Even the name
Blanche
seemed to have been designed for her. Her skin was indeed white, all the more so under her crown of wavy dark hair.

Roch had met Blanche in the exercise of his official functions. He had been entrusted by Fouché, who was an astute judge of men, with the task of collecting from the gaming parlors and houses of convenience of the Palais-Egalité the weekly contributions it pleased those establishments to bestow upon the police. Roch did not return the bawds’ knowing smiles when they handed him heavy purses, which he delivered promptly to the Minister.

Among the establishments visited by Roch was the gaming salon of Madame de Cléry. It was no brothel, but she would receive him in her bedroom, sometimes lying on a sofa, an embroidered slipper dangling from one toe, sometimes seated at her dressing table, tying her garter around a firm, round thigh. She did not seem a young woman, but he could guess at the curves of a very handsome body. She would yawn, smile at him, rise and walk lazily to a strongbox, disguised by an elegant mahogany veneer. He disliked the woman’s familiarities and ignored the squeeze of her hand as she gave him her weekly purse. He always hastened to leave.

It had been during one of those visits that he had met Blanche. She entered the bedroom while Madame de Cléry, who had seemed colder than usual, handed Roch her purse. At the sight of the young woman, he felt no less embarrassment than if he had been surprised in an intimate position with Madame de Cléry. He flushed with displeasure.

But Blanche seemed to ignore his awkwardness. She simply smiled at him. It was the smile of innocence, wandering lightly, without affectation, on a small, round, red mouth. And it did not stop at the mouth, but lit the fine dark eyes and carved dimples in the still childish cheeks. Her gown, a dark green silk with a gray sash, seemed delightfully modest next to Madame de Cléry’s sheer negligee. Roch was astonished at finding such a creature here, like a flower growing on a dunghill.

“Why, Mama,” she asked the older woman, “do you not introduce this gentleman?”

Roch stared. He had trouble believing that the young woman was Madame de Cléry’s daughter.

“Well, Blanche dearest, Chief Inspector Miquel is from the police. You know that the Minister kindly extends his protection to my establishment.” Her eyes turned away, she waved in Blanche’s direction. “Sir, this is my daughter, Madame Coudert.”

Roch frowned. He was unpleasantly surprised to learn that the young woman was married. But then, why not? He had heard of Coudert, the banker, who had already been one of the richest men in Paris before the Revolution. He had to be at least thirty years older than this wife of his.

Blanche, still smiling, held out her hand to Roch.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir. Will you do me the honor of calling on me tomorrow night? It will only be a simple musical gathering. I live on Rue de Babylone.”

Roch took Blanche’s proffered hand and made no response. She seemed to take his silence as an acceptance, and she fled the room as lightly as an apparition. All that remained of her was a fragrance of carnation and lily of the valley. He left promptly, avoiding Madame de Cléry’s eye.

Roch wondered about Blanche. The Cléry woman must be rich. The gaming salon, judging by its ample contributions to the coffers of the Ministry, appeared to prosper. Why had Blanche married Coudert? For his money? Madame de Cléry could certainly have spared Blanche a mercenary marriage. Had Coudert used other arguments to pressure the mother into giving him her daughter? Now there was pity, disgust and some curiosity mixed with Roch’s admiration of Blanche’s loveliness.

Roch hesitated before accepting her invitation. Yet the next day he walked to the Coudert mansion, located at the far end of Rue de Babylone. The weather was dry, fine for a late September evening. He passed the monumental gates, crossed the front courtyard and made his way past the row of carriages bringing Madame Coudert’s guests.

He whistled softly as he climbed the flight of steps that led to the front door, flanked by a row of marble columns in the antique style. Madame Coudert lived in a palace. He was wearing his best black coat and white silk stockings, but hesitated before crossing the threshold. He chided himself for his cowardice.

Who were those people anyway? He imagined what his father would say. Upstarts who, since the beginning of the war, eight years earlier, had grown rich providing the armies with
riz-pain-sel
, rice-bread-salt, or speculating on the precipitous decline of the
assignats
, the Republic’s paper money. Opposing parties and their leaders had risen and fallen, but the war, with its many opportunities, continued to this day. And now those people, their fortunes made, were trying to ape the
ci-devant
nobles, the former aristocrats.

A servant in a red livery, a sneer on his face, raised his arm to stop Roch. The man must have seen that he had come on foot, but let him pass upon hearing his name. Roch muttered, loud enough to be heard, “Lackey.”

He followed other guests up the stairs, lined with bouquets of ferns and the last roses of the season. The movement of the crowd and the noise of violins being tuned guided him to a vast salon, entirely paneled with gold-framed mirrors. They reflected to infinity the lights of crystal chandeliers and giant bronze candlesticks. Naked Roman deities, their pink flesh resting on plump pillowlike clouds, peered down at the company from the painted ceiling.

The men were dressed in black like Roch, or wore brightly colored uniforms trimmed in gold or silver braid. The women were clad in short-sleeved gowns, stiff with embroidery and covered with diamonds, emeralds and rubies set in flower patterns. Many had the thick, ruddy arms of former washerwomen, which did not prevent them from displaying row after row of glittering bracelets. The glare of the lights, the gold, the jewels, multiplied by the mirrors, dazzled Roch for a moment.