French Leave (20 page)

Inspecteur Ollivant did not think he would do that just yet. “M’sieur le Duc!” he said. “We have been combing the city for you. How come you to be here?” He looked from one golden-haired female to the other. “Do not fear to tell the truth. Were you kidnapped?”

The Duc sought a more comfortable position. “Put your arm just so,
chérie.
Yes, just like that. On the contrary, Inspecteur. I was set upon by footpads, and Ma’mselle Foliot rescued me. She was injured during the proceedings, as you may see.”

Inspecteur Ollivant could not dispute the bandage on Ma’mselle Foliot’s arm, but he was not so certain of the rest of the Duc’s tale. “This second female, who is she?”

“Ma’mselle Foliot’s cousin,” said the Duc at the same moment as Conor announced, “My wife.” Inspecteur Ollivant did not deem it prudent to cast aspersions on the wife of a gentleman who held a pistol. He turned back to Mab.

“You wonder why I did not make known my presence here,” said the Duc. “The answer to that is simple. I lost my memory from the blow to my head.”

Inspecteur Ollivant had a strong suspicion that a tissue of lies was being fabricated for his benefit. “And Ma’mselle Foliot also lost her memory? That is why she told no one you were here?”

“Ma’mselle Foliot wished to keep me safe. She did not wish there to be another attack.” The Duc gestured toward the chair. “As you can see, her fears were not unfounded.”

Inspecteur Ollivant frowned at Jacques, who had begun to stir. “This one attacked you?”

“He did.” Mab was pleased to at last be able to speak the truth. “He wished to hold Edouard—the Duc—to ransom. Tibble, the man looks thirsty. Give him some chocolate.”

Inspecteur Ollivant had scant interest just then in Jacques; he turned his back. Consequently, he was denied the spectacle of Jacques being force-fed Tibble’s chocolate at the point of Conor’s gun. Madame Gabbot, who did witness this small drama, thought little of it. She thought a great deal, however, about the story that was being told. “M’sieur Le Duc stayed
here?”
she echoed. “Along with this other female? Ma’mselle Foliot, you know the rules!”

Mab did, indeed. “I suppose,” she said gloomily, “that now you will again raise the rent.”

“But no, ma’mselle! These things they are unacceptable. I must ask you to leave.”

Ma’mselle Foliot looked stricken. Madame Gabbot smiled. Nothing made her so happy as to discomfit her tenants. Where was Fifi? Abrim with triumph, Madame Gabbot wished to stroke her cat, which—as is the nature of the species—was nowhere in sight. “Fifi! What have you done with Fifi?” she asked.

Her question was ignored, no one having the least interest in Madame’s unpleasant cat. “Well, man!” Conor said impatiently. “What are you waiting for? This is your Jacobin. Place him under arrest and be off about your business.”

Inspecteur Ollivant looked doubtfully at Jacques, who had lapsed again into unconsciousness after drinking his chocolate. “I should be grateful to you, Inspecteur,” said the Duc, “if there was no making mountains out of molehills of this business. Very grateful, indeed.”

Here was a dilemma. Inspecteur Ollivant was being offered a bribe. Scruple and conscience were outraged. On the other hand, one’s career might advance rapidly under the patronage of a duc. Perhaps the Duc might even have some influence with the head of the Sûreté.

What would have been the response of the great Fouché? Inspecteur Ollivant executed a smart salute. “I am at your service, m’sieur.”

“I rather thought you might be,” said Edouard. “This scoundrel is a notorious liar. He will no doubt tell outrageous stories in an effort to save his own neck. He may even try to implicate Ma’mselle Foliot, whom we know to be as innocent as a babe newborn. You, of course, are too discerning to accept such lies as the truth.”

Inspecteur Ollivant knew on which side his bread was buttered. Of a certainty he would let sleeping dogs lie.

He jerked his head at Tibble. “Here, you! Help me to untie this fellow from his chair.”

Together, Inspecteur Ollivant and Tibble wrestled the unconscious man down the stair. Madame Gabbot hovered uncertainly near the stove, undecided as to whether she should go or stay.

That indecision caused Madame Gabbot to miss the confrontation between Inspecteur Ollivant and Colonel Laveran that took place in her courtyard. Inspecteur Ollivant bared his teeth at his rival. “You come too late.”

Colonel Laveran was affronted at this suggestion. He made it his business to arrive on time or not at all.
“Comment ça?”

Inspecteur Ollivant prodded his unconscious captive. “Here is your Jacobin. Captured by myself, and not by the Gendarmerie.”

Colonel Laveran took a closer look at the Inspecteur Ollivant’s captive. This was no handsome devil with black curls and green eyes. Not that he had expected it to be. Colonel Laveran had satisfied himself that Gabriel Beaumont was not on these premises. He had not returned to this address to pursue Jacobins but to pay his addresses to Ma’mselle Foliot, whom he admired.

Still, first things first. Colonel Laveran would enjoy seeing Inspecteur Ollivant try to explain his arrest of the wrong man. He patted Inspecteur Ollivant on the back in a friendly manner.
“Felicitations!
I shall accompany you to the office of the commissionaire.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

While Inspecteur Ollivant and Colonel Laveran were on their way to the office of the commissionaire—where Jacques would eventually confound everyone and secure his own release by steadfastly refusing to say anything at all, thereby leading Inspecteur Ollivant’s superiors to the conclusion that he was a deaf-mute, and also that Inspecteur Ollivant had been the victim of a practical joke, which amused Colonel Laveran immensely, a somewhat premature reaction since his own meteoric career was to suffer as a result of his failure to apprehend Gabriel Beaumont, a failure that would directly contribute to the return of the Emperor Napoleon from Elba some months later, but that event plays no part in this tale—Madame Gabbot continued to search the studio for her cat. “Fifi!” she called. “Fifi!”

From the cat there was no answer. Conor and Mab helped the Duc up from the floor. On their way to the divan they passed by the kayak. From beneath it came a sound very like a snore. The Duc, and nudged the kayak with his foot. Curled up beneath the kayak was Fifi, fast asleep.
“Voilà!”

Madame Gabbot snatched up her pet, which blinked sleepily and then began to emit a strange sound somewhere between a snore and a purr. The cat had got at the chocolate pot, and its frame of mind would be remarkably improved until the effects of the laudanum wore off. “You’ve found Fifi,” said Mab. “Now you can go away.”

“I think not.” Madame Gabbot smiled unpleasantly. “It’s you as may go away. I remind you that you are evicted, ma’mselle.”

“Not yet, I’m not!” Mab sat down beside Edouard on the divan. “M’sieur Le Duc is still not well.”

The Duc smiled. “I have a home of my own,
chérie
.  I would be pleased to return your hospitality and invite you to recover from your injuries there.”

Mab was made very nervous by the phrasing of this invitation. “You remember, then?”

“Everything.” The Duc took her hand. “I owe you an apology, ma’mselle.”

Madame Gabbot would have liked to hear that apology. She would have liked to know for what M’sieur Le Duc felt obliged to apologize. Alas, he was interrupted by a knocking on the door. “What now?” sighed Mab.

Maurice stood on the threshold.
“Ma petite,
I come to apologize. I said unkind things to you—you deserved them, I do not say you did not deserve them, but I should not have been unkind.” He noticed Barbary then, and looked from her to Mab.
“Mon Dieu!”

“It was me you were cross with, not Mab!” Barbary said quickly. “She could not pose for you because she had hurt her arm. It will be healed soon, and then she can go back to work.”

Mab did not look enthused by this suggestion. “I think not,” said the Duc.

“Edouard!” Maurice hurried to the divan. “Where have you been?”

The Duc shrugged. “Here and there. It is a very dull story. You would not wish to hear it.”

Mab interrupted. “What do you mean, you think not?”

“I mean,” said the Duc, “that I wish you to appear in antique draperies only for me. If you should not mind.”

Mab rather thought she would not. Still, one didn’t wish to appear too eager to admit this change of heart. “You wish to paint me, m’sieur?”

“Ah, I have no talent. But if you think that you should like it, I am willing to try.” The Duc stroked her wrist. “Indeed, I think I am willing to try anything you think you might like.”

Mab could think of any number of things she might like, none of which were suitable for mentioning in polite company. She did not like it at all when Barbary shattered the moment by clearing her throat.

Barbary disliked to interrupt, but Mab lacked experience in matters of the heart. “Forgive me for asking, m’sieur, but have you a wife?”

Edouard smiled. “I do not, ma’mselle. I have been poor as a church mouse for most of my life.”

Barbary was startled. “But Mab said you were rich as—ah!”

“An inheritance.” The Duc was apologetic. “Attendant upon the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne.”

He was not the lazy, indolent aristocrat Mab had thought him. Or if he was, he was only newly so. “You are asking me,” she said, “to be your
petite amie.”

“Would you consider it?” The Duc looked intrigued. “Admittedly, it was originally my intention, but you did not seem enthusiastic, and so I thought you might like to be married instead. I hesitate to mention it, because of your republican ideals. Apropos of which—not that I mean to try to change your mind!—Napoleon during his reign as Emperor was even more monarchial than the Bourbons. And there are a number of positive things that may be said about the new regime. For one thing, it has enjoyed an economic success. The Napoleonic Code, the judiciary, the bureaucracy, and the structure of the economy—all these remain unchanged. There has been little retaliation against those who served the Emperor. Not that I mean to argue with your politics! You have ideals. I admire ideals. I—”

“Ah, bah!” Mab was in no mood for politics. “You would not wish to be married to someone like me.”

The Duc lay back on his pillows. “You must allow me to be the best judge of that. You will continue with your papa’s work, of course. That is what I wished to speak to you about. Should you have any of Jean-Paul’s canvases left, I would be very interested in purchasing them from you. By the way, that canvas on the easel—what
was
supposed to be on the divan?”

“The kayak. I thought it made an interesting still life.” Truth be told, Mab wasn’t entirely certain that she was equipped to be an artist, as demonstrated by the number of canvases that she had ruined in her attempts.
“That
is what you wished to talk to me about?”

How absurdly disappointed she looked. Edouard touched her hair. “That and other things.”

Mab could only be glad that Edouard had broached the other matter first—not that she was happy she had hit him—for it seemed unlikely that a discussion of her papa’s paintings would have resulted in the same chain of events. “When did you regain your memory?” she asked.

“I must confess.” The Duc was apologetic. “Almost from the first. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable and so I did not tell you. Besides, I was having a great deal too much fun. You need to learn to have fun. Life need not always be so serious a business,
ma petite
.”

Did it not? Mab could not help but be intrigued by a viewpoint that found amusement in broken heads and Jacobins. Not that she had given up her principles. Each small effort counted. She would convert the Duc to more republican ideals.

One other thing concerned her. “You must swear to me that you shan’t kiss my cousin,” said Mab.

“Kiss your cousin?” The Duc was astounded. “Why should I do that?”

Why, indeed? Mab could find no fault with this response. She smiled.

Maurice was misty-eyed. Mab had found for herself a gentleman who was
sympathique. Très sympathique,
if he allowed her to continue painting after seeing the ruined canvas that leaned against the door. Alas, this meant Maurice had lost his favorite model. Understandable that Edouard would not wish her to go about in antique draperies.

Maurice would not despair. In antiquity there were countless subjects from which to choose. To sketch Mab had been to sketch beauty. Maurice would now expose his students to the study of the opposite. Medusa, perhaps. Not that he meant to introduce into his studio live snakes.

But where in all Paris was he to find a model for such work as he envisioned? Maurice turned toward the door. His gaze fell upon the concierge. Madame Gabbot was not at all misty-eyed at sight of M’sieur Le Duc and Ma’mselle Foliot enacting
l’amour.
Indeed, it had made her bilious, and quite destroyed her good mood.

Maurice made a bow. “Madame, a favor, if you would.”

Madame Gabbot was not in the habit of granting favors. Still, M’sieur Maurice was an artist, and she had a studio to let. “What is it?” she asked.

One must proceed with caution. “Perhaps a word in private?” Maurice suggested delicately. Madame Gabbot acquiesced.

The door closed behind them. Conor looked at his wife. She was watching Mab and the Duc stare into each other’s eyes, her expression glum. “Come for a walk with me,” said Conor. Barbary looked startled but followed him down the stairs and onto the landing.

Conor frowned at her. “I’m sorry things have worked out this way. What will you do now?”

He had not forgiven her. No doubt he was doubly angry because she had pretended to be Mab. “I don’t know,” Barbary murmured. “And you?”

How sad she looked. Understandable, of course—she had ridden off into the sunset with her own true love, only to lose him to her cousin—but it still made Conor cross. “My dear, you have had things too easy. If you want something very badly, then you must fight for it.”