Читать книгу The Père-Lachaise Mystery: 2nd Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 13

IT was almost nine o’clock when Denise reached Pont des Arts. The crisp, clear morning set off to perfection one of the most beautiful views in Paris. She stopped halfway across the bridge, mesmerised by the sights around her. To her left lay the towers of the Palais de Justice, the spire of Saint-Chapelle and the imposing bulk of Notre-Dame with the point of the Île de la Cité and the Vert-Galant garden glinting behind them in the sunshine. To her right, far in the distance, the Eiffel Tower soared into the sky. The Seine seemed to arch its back as it curved under Pont Neuf, its current breaking against the hulls of the laundry boats before settling into a smooth yellowish flow, dotted with ducks.

She walked past the L’Institut and the École des Beaux-Arts, watching the second-hand booksellers and the medal traders setting up their stalls on the other side of Quai Malaquais. She had to pluck up courage to ask a portly man the way, but he smiled at her from behind an enormous moustache and pointed out Rue des Saints-Pères.

The houses here were less ostentatiously grand than those on Boulevard Haussman, but Denise found them much more beautiful, perhaps because their weather-beaten façades had stood the test of time. There was a calm, provincial air to the street that she found reassuring. There were several bookshops, but she couldn’t see Monsieur Legris’s. It was only when she spotted the sign saying ‘Elzévir’ above the number 18 that she was certain that she had come to the right place. Behind the shop windows, which were set in wood panelling of a greeny-bronze colour, large red-bound gilt-edged volumes were lined up next to more recent works. Amongst the latter, the latest book by Émile Zola, The Beast in Man, the extremely controversial Noncoms by Lucien Descaves and a Shakespeare play, left open at a lurid illustration of witches, took pride of place. One corner of the window display was dedicated to some novels whose titles Denise read out haltingly in a low voice: The Lerouge Affair by Émile Gaboriau, The Exploits of Rocambole by Ponson du Terrail, The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens, Fifi Vollard’s Gang by Constant Guéroult and The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. A small notice in red ink read:

If you like murder mysteries and thrillers, do not hesitate to ask for advice. It will be our pleasure to assist you.

A little alarmed by these words, Denise pressed her face against the window and saw a blond young man inside the shop, engrossed in a newspaper. She was startled by the sound of whistling. A schoolboy, his cap pulled down over his eyes, was standing beside her, so close that he nudged her arm. She moved away slightly and then took refuge under the awning of a packaging shop on the other side of the street, hoping that Madame’s ex-lover would soon appear. The schoolboy positioned himself a little further off, in front of Debauve & Gallais, makers of fine chocolates.

The door of the building beside the bookshop opened and out came a woman as round as a ball, enveloped in an apron and armed with a broom. As she scanned the street, looking from right to left, she caught sight of Denise and stared at her suspiciously. Then she disappeared into the hall, reappearing a moment later with a bucket, which she emptied on to the pavement just as a costermonger’s cart appeared beside her. The water narrowly missed the woman pulling the cart.

‘Watch out, Madame Ballu. You almost drowned me!’

‘I’m sorry, Madame Pignot, my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about my cousin Alphonse, the one who went to Senegal. He’s caught it!’

‘Caught what?’

‘Influenza. They’ve given him syrup of snails, but he’s still coughing and coughing.’

‘Not to worry, Madame Ballu, I’m sure he’ll get better. Good day!’

‘And good day to you, Madame Pignot.’

Madame Pignot waved in the direction of the bookshop and set off again pulling her cart. The young blond man rushed out of the shop. ‘Maman, wait!’ he cried.

He caught up with the costermonger, grabbed a couple of large apples from the top of her fruit and vegetable basket, planted a kiss on her cheek and went back into the bookshop.

Denise did not budge from her spot. She saw the blond boy reappear on the pavement and call to a man leaning out of a first-floor window, ‘Give me ten minutes, boss!’

The man nodded his assent, then closed the window. Denise had time to notice his slanting eyes. She remembered her mistress mentioning Monsieur Legris’s Chinese valet disapprovingly.

The Oriental man was dressed in the English style in a fully buttoned tweed jacket with narrow lapels and flap pockets, a white shirt, grey trousers with an impeccable crease and brown leather shoes. He went over to a table with a row of inkwells on it, and picked up some rail tickets, which he slipped into his wallet. He gazed for a moment at the two new prints recently hung on the wall to brighten the room. One, Boat ride under the Azuma Bridge, was by Kiyonga1 and the other, entitled Lake Biwa, was by Hiroshige.2 He pushed open the door of the bathroom, which was equipped with a copper bath. Leaning towards the mirror over the basin, he straightened the knot of his green silk tie, put on a checked worsted bowler hat and, apparently satisfied, smiled at the photograph on a marble shelf in front of him. Gazing out of the image was a young woman with brown hair who was tenderly holding a boy of about twelve. At the bottom was the inscription, Daphne and Victor, London 1872.

The man went back into the spacious sitting room, which was furnished in the style of Louis XIII, slid back a slatted paper partition, and entered a Japanese-style bedroom. A recess housed a thick cotton blanket and a wooden pillow, a Japanese trunk with ornamental hinges, Noh theatre masks, sheathed swords and a lacquer writing desk. He closed a suitcase, covered in multicoloured labels, and attached a rectangular tag to the handle bearing the following identification: Monsieur Kenji Mori, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Paris, France.

As he prepared for his departure, Kenji was reflecting on how, finally, Iris was going to be living near him. In her last letter she had expressed her joy at the thought of living in France, no longer having to wait weeks for him to find time to leave his business associate and cross the Channel to be with her. Saint-Mandé was very close to Paris and he would be able to visit her every Sunday. She would enjoy living comfortably in the heart of the countryside. Mademoiselle Bontemps’s boarding house, an agreeable dwelling on Chausée de l’Étang, was opposite the Bois de Vincennes. He would, however, have to use all his wiles to keep her away from the bookshop. It was out of the question that she should meet Victor! He would find a way. His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of wheels in the street. He went over to the window: a carriage was drawing up in front of the bookshop. The blond young man got out and shouted triumphantly, ‘Your cab awaits, M’sieu Mori!’

‘Coming!’

Denise watched the blond boy come out of the bookshop weighed down by a suitcase dotted with labels. He was followed by two men: the Oriental, and a good-looking man of medium height aged about thirty. He had brown hair and a moustache. She stiffened – it was Madame de Valois’s old lover! She heard him cry, ‘Have a good journey, Kenji, be good!’ as the Oriental took his seat in the cab, which set off.

As soon as Victor Legris and the blond boy had gone back into the shop, Denise crossed the road in what she hoped was a confident manner and went in after them. The blond boy was busy dusting the books on the shelves with a feather duster. At the tinkling of the door bell, he turned his large round head, crowned with dead-straight hair, and smiled at Denise, who gazed at him, blushing, not knowing what to say.

‘Good morning. May I help you?’ When she didn’t reply, he went up to her, smiling more broadly. ‘Are you looking for a book? Any author in particular?’

She noticed that he was hunchbacked. Her brother Erwan had told her once that meeting a hunchback brought luck. She was reassured, without knowing why, although now the boy was scrutinising her in a slightly condescending way. ‘I would like to speak to Monsieur Legris,’ she whispered. ‘It’s … important.’

Intrigued, the boy took in the young girl’s attire. She was badly turned out, her shoes were in a pitiful state and her crinoline was rather skimpy. He noticed the rectangular package that she was clutching to her bosom and from this he concluded that she must be one of those provincial girls convinced they were the next George Sand, come to sell her writings to the booksellers of Saint-Germain. He sighed, and going behind the counter, disappeared up the spiral staircase that led to the first floor. Left alone, Denise stared at the bust of a man wearing a wig and a faintly mocking expression, which was positioned on a black marble mantelpiece. She tried to read the name of the figure.

‘So, you like my Molière?’

The deep voice made her jump. Victor Legris was regarding her with a questioning air. The young man had taken up his duster again and was humming as he dusted.

‘I’m in the service of Madame de Valois, and I … I’ve …’

‘Madame de Valois?’ Victor frowned. The image of his former mistress came to him, her blonde hair loose, her round pink breasts revealed beneath the sheet she had thrown back. It all seemed such a long time ago … how long ago had he left her? Nine, ten months? ‘Yes, I recognise you. Remind me what your name is.’

‘Denise Le Louarn.’

‘Denise, of course. Did Madame send you?’ He suddenly felt guilty.

‘No, no, Monsieur, I came of my own accord. I don’t know anyone in Paris except you, and …’

She cast an embarrassed look at the assistant who was listening to the conversation. At a sign from Victor, he made himself scarce.

‘I have to speak to you, please, Monsieur … It’s about Madame de Valois, I’m so worried.’

Feeling uncomfortable, Victor noticed that the young girl looked pale and uncertain and seemed on the point of collapse. He gestured vaguely, then let his hand fall. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ Without waiting for a reply, he took her arm and went on, ‘No, neither have I. Come on. Joseph, if anyone asks for me, I’ll be at the Temps Perdu. Leave your things here, behind the counter, Mademoiselle.’

The door bell sounded. Joseph shook his feather duster in exasperation over a rectangular table covered with a green cloth in the middle of the bookshop. ‘Temps perdu, time wasted. How apt – he certainly knows how to waste time. And, what’s more, he leaves me to run the business on my own, poor Jojo!’

He put down his feather duster and, settling himself on a stool, took an apple and a newspaper out of his pocket. He glanced at the front page.

Stop press: In Germany, Paul Lafargue, the son-in-law of Karl Marx, rejoiced at the 4,500 votes received by the socialist Bebel in Strasbourg.

He shrugged his shoulders; he wasn’t very interested in politics. He leafed through the daily until he came to the heading Miscellaneous News and read out loud:

A strange robbery. Last night, unknown individuals broke into the stables of the Omnibus Company depot on Rue Ordener and cut off the manes and tails of twenty-five horses. An investigation is underway …

‘That’s not normal! What on earth are they going to do with horse hair? Make wigs?’

As quick as a flash, he jumped down from his perch, snatched up a pair of scissors and a pot of glue, and pulled a thick black notebook out of his other pocket. He cut out the article and stuck it into the notebook with all the other unusual snippets. Then he bit into his apple and went on with his reading.

The Temps Perdu was on the corner of Rue des Saints-Pères and Quai Malaquais. At that early hour, the café was almost empty. They sat down at a table in one of the little booths opposite the bar. Victor ordered tea. Denise didn’t want anything to drink but she ate some bread and butter and a croissant. She was ravenous.

‘The French are incapable of making tea correctly, even though it’s so simple! This brew is like dish water.’

‘Madame always tells me that I make her hot chocolate badly.’ The young girl wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

Mildly irritated, Victor pushed his cup away. ‘If I understand correctly, you want to leave Madame de Valois. Is she really so unbearable?’

Denise hesitated, lowering her eyes. ‘She was different before …’

‘Before what?’

‘Before the death of Monsieur. Yes, she was demanding and strict, like all bosses, but she also had her good points. This summer, in Houlgate, she was actually very kind; she let me go for walks by the sea while she went to her meetings with Madame de Brix.’

She stopped suddenly, her fingers moulding some crumbs of bread, and cried: ‘She’s the one who put all these foolish thoughts in her head!’

‘Thoughts?’

‘You’ll laugh, Monsieur … Well, that the dead aren’t dead, that there’s an afterlife, not in paradise, but here on earth with us, that they come back to visit us without us being able to see them … things like that. In Houlgate, Madame de Brix took Madame to see a medium. He lived in a beautiful house where very strange things went on. Monsieur Numa, the medium, would lend his voice to the dead so that they could converse with the living. Madame de Brix talked to her son who’s been dead and buried for ages. I didn’t see it myself, it was Sidonie Taillade, her maid, who told me. It made her laugh. She said that her boss was a bit loopy.’

Denise emphasised this statement by tapping her forehead with her index finger. She went on: ‘Madame de Valois changed overnight when the telegram announcing Monsieur’s death arrived from America. It was the end of November and …’

Victor was no longer listening. He was remembering how the Comtesse de Salignac had told him the news with relish: ‘I believe you know Armand de Valois? You can cross him off your customer list – he’s no longer of this world, poor thing, carried off by yellow fever.’ Taken up with his love for Tasha, a painter he had met at the Universal Exposition, Victor had not found the courage to present his condolences in person to Odette and had made do with sending her a rather impersonal note. Tasha … He could picture her as clearly as if she were before him, with her green eyes and red hair tied back at the nape of her neck. He could even hear the slight lilt of her Russian accent. How he missed her! She had been giving him the cold shoulder for two long weeks. And over something so stupid! He had merely dared to disapprove of her proposal to exhibit her canvases at the Soleil d’Or. ‘That insalubrious dive on the Place Saint-Michel? Why not choose somewhere with a better clientele?’ he had suggested. Of course she had taken offence; she was so touchy! ‘Admit it – you’re just jealous! You can’t stand me living an independent life; you would like to shut me up like a concubine!’ she had retorted, flaring up with anger. Jealous … Yes, she was right, but wasn’t that natural when he saw the familiar way the other artists treated her, especially that Maurice Laumier, whom he loathed and who loathed him back?

‘… know that perhaps I shouldn’t say this to you, Monsieur, but … Monsieur, are you listening?’

Victor came back to earth. ‘Yes?’

‘You understand, Monsieur, I think she was worried that the Good Lord had punished her because … well …’ She lowered her head.

‘Punished? What do you mean?’

‘For her affair with you – I don’t mean to be rude.’

Victor forced himself to smile. ‘Come on, my dear, I wasn’t the only one and, besides, Monsieur de Valois was scarcely a paragon of virtue himself. You worked for them; you must have been aware of that. By the time he died, your mistress and I had long since separated.’

‘I know. But that doesn’t stop her praying several times a day, on her knees, in front of a portrait of Monsieur, framed in black crêpe. I’ve heard her begging him to forgive her. “Armand, I feel your presence, I know you’re here. You see everything. You hear everything. Give your little sugar plum a sign, my duck, I implore you!” Fancy calling a dead man “my duck”! And there’s another thing. She had me close the shutters and pull the curtains on the pretext that Monsieur feared the light, so we live constantly by candlelight. The apartment is like a tomb! And you wouldn’t believe Madame’s bedroom … if you could see how she’s decorated it and what she keeps in her wardrobe … She would have liked a grand funeral with no expense spared on flowers, wreaths and the whole works, but since he was buried amongst the savages, she had a marble plaque engraved, which cost an arm and a leg because of the gold lettering, and she had it placed in the Vallois family chapel in the Pères-Lachaise cemetery. All that frightened me. I’ve tried to convince myself that being widowed has driven her a little mad. She started disappearing every Monday and Thursday afternoon, and when she returned she was … trans … trans …’

‘Transfigured?’

‘Yes, that must be it. You know, like the saints you see on stained-glass windows in churches. The day before yesterday she asked me to go with her. We took a carriage and went to a handsome building in a part of Paris I didn’t know. A lady let us in. I didn’t see her face, she was wearing a veil, but I gathered from the tone of her voice that she was displeased. She took Madame to one side and lectured her because she had not come alone. They shut themselves in a bedroom at the end of a long corridor. I had to wait more than two hours for them to come out. Madame had been crying; she was dabbing her eyes. The lady in the veil said to her: ‘Tomorrow, your mourning will be over on condition that you obey your husband and bring him what he asked for. Then he will be freed from his bonds and you will be able to start a new life.’

‘What did she have to take?’

Denise bit her lip. ‘A picture that Monsieur was very fond of, at least that’s what Madame told me. I went to get it; it was very dark in Monsieur’s bedroom and Madame was in a hurry. We went to Père-Lachaise and that’s where Madame disappeared, I’ve …’

Victor lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke, watching a large brunette woman on the other side of the road. If he had had his camera with him, he would have been able to take a good shot of the light figure against the dark wall. Meanwhile the girl was still prattling on …

‘You have to believe me. I’m not making it up, Monsieur Legris, I swear that it’s true! When I reached the chapel, Madame had disappeared. There was only the scarf that had been wrapped … just the scarf, there on the ground. I went to pick it up, but something struck me, a stone perhaps. But I saw no one. I was terrified and ran as fast as I could to the gatekeeper’s lodge and he advised me to go home. When I got back to Boulevard Haussmann, I looked everywhere, but she wasn’t there. I shut myself in my room and early in the morning someone tried to break in! I sensed an evil presence just as I had in the chapel. If you call up spirits, they appear!’

While the young girl continued her lamentations, Victor, amused, was wondering why Odette had had to think up such a far-fetched strategem just to stay out all night. He found it hard to believe in Odette’s new incarnation as a sorrowing widow desperate to communicate with the spirit of her husband, whom she had betrayed over and over again. Perhaps this time she had two lovers on the go and was trying to fool one of them in order to spend time with the other.

‘Please, Monsieur Legris, I implore you to help me. I don’t want to go back there. I’d rather sleep under the bridges than stay another night in that cursed house!’

‘Don’t worry, my dear, Madame de Valois has no doubt had to go away unexpectedly.’ To be with a loved one, just like Kenji, who is off courting his dear Iris, he thought.

‘But, Monsieur, there really was … a presence outside my door; I didn’t dream it. And Madame hasn’t taken any of her clothes. I would have noticed when I searched …’

While maintaining an air of interest, Victor studied the girl’s lips, but really he was thinking of Tasha. He suddenly had an inspiration. Thanks to this voluble little maid, and to Kenji, he had the opportunity to effect a reconciliation. He stubbed out his cigarette and threw a few coins on to the saucer.

‘It’s all right, my dear. I’ll sort something out.’

Two customers were leafing through some books, one sitting at the big table and the other at the counter where Joseph was standing. Victor beckoned him discreetly.

‘I’m leaving you to look after this young lady. Her name’s Denise – keep an eye on her. I’ll be right back.’

‘But, boss …’

Victor had already gone.

‘Would you believe it! As soon as Monsieur Mori turns his back, Monsieur Legris disappears too! I can’t be everywhere at once,’ grumbled Joseph, giving Denise a black look.

‘Don’t worry about me, Monsieur. I’ll just sit on this stool and wait. If you need any help, please just ask me,’ stammered the girl.

Slightly mollified by this offer and by the girl’s use of ‘Monsieur’, Joseph deigned to smile before turning to help a customer.

In high good humour, Victor set off up Rue Lepic, whistling the opening bars of a waltz by Fauré. He turned into Rue Tholozé and pushed open the doors of Bibulus, a smoky bar with a sign representing a suckling dog. After the dazzlingly bright sunshine, the darkness took him by surprise. He slowly crossed the low-ceilinged room that was furnished with barrels for tables. Two customers, sprawled in front of their glasses of beer, were shuffling greasy cards.

At the counter a large ruddy-faced fellow was drawing pints.

‘Ave, Firmin!’ Victor greeted him.

‘Amen,’ grunted the barman.

Victor went along a narrow corridor and entered a room on the same floor with a glass roof that was kitted out as a painter’s studio. A charcoal stove gave out a powerful heat and the air was heavy with the smell of tobacco. Half a dozen young people were bent over their easels working on studies of the model, a half-naked lady leaning against a pedestal on which a vase of carnations had been placed. To one side, a petite redhead, whose chignon was coming loose, was concentrating on her canvas, covering it with nervous brush strokes. She was wearing an oversized stained smock that came down to her ankle boots. A large man with long hair and a beard was leaning towards her, proffering advice. With flushed cheeks, Victor observed them for a while before making up his mind. ‘Hello Tasha,’ he said, ignoring the bearded fellow.

Surprised, the petite redhead jumped.

‘Can I talk to you in private?’ he added.

‘What happy event brings our friend the bookseller-cum-photographer here?’ asked the bearded man in an aggressive tone.

Victor greeted him stiffly.

‘Maurice, make yourself scarce for a moment, would you?’ said Tasha, giving him a friendly pat.

‘Right away, my beauty, for you, anything … anything at all. In fact, I could frame your pictures for you.’

‘Why are you always so rude to him?’ asked Tasha, putting down her brush. Victor immediately adopted a penitent air.

‘I think I should apologise,’ he said.

‘I don’t expect you to do that; nothing will change his personality. I did warn you though that I will not be treated like an object.’

At that moment enthusiastic cries greeted Firmin who was carrying a tray of glasses. Maurice gave Victor a mocking glance and joined the others crowding round the large fellow, calling him the Bacchus of modern times and the saviour of oppressed artists.

Adjusting her chignon, Tasha took off her smock to reveal a white bodice and mauve skirt, then put on a coat that tied at the waist. ‘Did you want something?’

‘Just a little favour. Would you be able to lend your room to a girl who has nowhere else to go?’

She looked at him in amazement, one glove still in her hand, the other half on.

‘And where will I sleep?’

‘Rue des Saints-Pères. Number 18. The Elzévir bookshop.’

She slowly finished putting on her gloves.

‘You could have thought of a better excuse.’

‘It’s the truth. The girl’s name is Denise and I don’t know what else to do with her. But, even if that weren’t the case, I would have come anyway with some sort of proposition. Two weeks without you; it’s an eternity.’

She hid a smile, pleased to have scored some kind of victory. Several times during the past two weeks she had been on the point of rushing round to see him, risking bumping into his Japanese business associate, who behaved coldly towards her, for some unknown reason. But she had held back, not wanting to be the first to make the move, out of pride, but also out of caution. Victor was too possessive. If she allowed herself, even once, to seek his forgiveness, he would think he had the right to decide upon whom she saw and what she did, and to smother her with love. And that would be the end of the affair …

‘You seem to have forgotten Monsieur Mori.’

‘Kenji is in London until the end of the week.’

‘You’ve thought of everything! How organised you are! Am I supposed to fall into your arms sighing, “When do we leave for your house?”?’

‘You’re supposed to do what you like, knowing that nothing would make me happier than a yes.’

‘I would be able to come and go as I liked?’

‘How could I stop you? I haven’t the strength,’ he said, laughing.

‘Well, in that case … a truce may be possible. Does this poor little homeless girl want to move into my palace this evening?’

He almost kissed her, but already she was moving away to put her hat on in front of the mirror at the end of the studio. Maurice Laumier approached him.

‘What do you think of this canvas? Our friend is getting better all the time, don’t you agree? Exhibiting her work at the Soleil d’Or will be a real opportunity for her. Gauguin has decorated the basement, and two Saturdays a month he gets all the artists who contribute to the magazine La Plume to gather there. You’re always going on about literature; you should come along to listen to the poets – they’re the real thing.’

Victor had no desire to get into an argument with Maurice Laumier. He studied Tasha’s composition, in the centre of which the carnations flared like a flame, throwing the languid silhouette of the woman into shadow.

‘I’m surprised that you encourage the study of such conventional subjects,’ he murmured.

‘My dear chap, you pretend to know about photography, so surely I don’t have to explain to you that the subject is unimportant, it’s the style that distinguishes the artist.’

‘You’re absolutely right. And I like Tasha’s style enormously. I hope you don’t object to that?’

‘Don’t start that again! See you tomorrow, Maurice, we’ve got to go.’

They went out, leaving Maurice fuming. Enraged, he knocked over Tasha’s stool as he sat back down on his own.

‘To hear them, you’d think I was a rum baba, and they were silly schoolboys fighting over me in a pâtisserie,’ she murmured, walking quickly up Rue Durantin.

‘What did you say?’ asked Victor, who was struggling to keep up with her.

‘Nothing, I was talking to myself!’

Worried, he hurried to catch up with her. What if she changed her mind? She had calmed down by the time they reached Rue Berthe and he was able to walk next to her.

‘I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be unpleasant to Laumier.’

‘When will you stop being jealous?’ she cried, turning to face him.

‘Me? Jealous?’

‘Listen to me, Victor Legris, we have to sort this out now, once and for all! I had a life before I met you and I will not put up with you interfering in my friendships. You’re suspicious, vindictive and you have no self-control!’

‘I’m sorry, I swear that—’

‘No vows!’ she exclaimed, laughing, in spite of herself. ‘You won’t be able to keep them.’

They reached Rue des Martyrs. Above them towered the scaffolding of the Sacré-Coeur construction site whilst, lower down, the sails of the Moulin de la Galette hung over the tiered houses that sat cheek by jowl.

‘What about your exhibition? Are you ready for it?’ he asked sheepishly.

‘I’m only exhibiting two or three canvases. Framing is so expensive …’

She slowed down. Now he would think she was asking him for money. Of course, he reacted immediately.

‘Tasha, I can pay for it.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t be stubborn! I can afford it and it would give me pleasure …’

‘Liar. You told me you disapproved of the venue, too vulgar for your taste.’

‘I was being stupid, yet again. I take it all back. I believe in you, in your talent. It would be ridiculous to give up now! Let me do this for you. It’s not as if it’s jewels I want to buy for you, just some bits of wood, for heaven’s sake!’

She walked along in silence nibbling her thumbnail through her glove. He edged closer to her and pulled her to him. She let herself be drawn into his embrace, indifferent to the clatter of the hansom cabs passing each other on the road.

‘That ringing noise is deafening! Oh no, young man, you’ll never convince me!’

An elegant lady with greying hair was staring at Joseph over a lorgnette. Nearby, a thin young girl whose nose was slightly too long gazed at him adoringly. Hunched over on her stool, Denise was doing her best to escape the notice of the ladies.

Joseph was showing off an apparatus resting on the desk.

‘It’s child’s play, Madame la Comtesse. I’ll show you how it works. And you too, Mademoiselle Valentine. Imagine that you want to talk to your aunt. First you press the bell hard, two or three times, then you lift the receiver and bring it to your ear. You say “allô” – that’s an English word, you don’t say bonjour. The telephonist replies “allô” and you give her the name and address of the person you want to speak to. I’ll demonstrate.’

He put the receiver to his ear, pausing to observe the effect on his audience.

‘Allô … Yes, Mademoiselle, I would like to speak to Madame la Comtesse de Salignac, 22 Rue du Bac, Paris.’

He smiled at Valentine.

‘Here you are, Mademoiselle. You keep the receiver next to your ear until you hear your aunt. Never fiddle with the bell while you’re in the middle of a conversation, because you’ll cut the connection. Speak clearly, without raising your voice, holding the mouthpiece an inch or two from your mouth.’

He turned to the Comtesse.

‘When the conversation is finished, you hang up and press the bell to let the telephonist know that the line is free.’

The Comtesses de Salignac sniffed disdainfully.

‘I don’t see the advantage of owning such an instrument. If you want conversation, there’s nothing better than a tearoom! I’m sure that no sensible person will want to be encumbered with such a device. Tell me, young man, have you received my Georges Ohnet?’

‘Which one?’

‘Spirit of Stone and this time I have the name of the publisher: it’s Ollendorff.’

‘No, Madame, not yet, it’s only just come out, although we do expect to receive it soon. In the meantime I can recommend the latest Zola.’

‘You can’t mean Beast in Man! You must have taken leave of your senses, young man! I counted the deaths: six, you hear me, six! President Grandmorin, assassinated, that makes one. Madame Misard, slowly poisoned, that makes two. Flore, committed suicide, three. Séverine: assassinated. And finally, Jacques and Pecqueux, run over by a locomotive. That Monsieur Zola soaks his pen in blood. He’s not a writer, he’s a butcher!’

Joseph caught Valentine’s eye. She was trying to stifle a laugh. The Comtesse tapped her on the shoulder with her lorgnette.

‘Valentine, we’ll come back when Monsieur Legris does us the honour of being here.’

As they were leaving, a schoolboy stood aside to let them pass. From outside the shop window, Valentine risked an amorous glance at Joseph, who was then in seventh heaven.

Meanwhile, the schoolboy, a slender lad whose voice was breaking, was asking for the poetry section. Joseph distractedly pointed out a shelf at right angles to the counter, behind which Denise was still patiently waiting.

Victor looked in cautiously.

‘Has the battleaxe gone?’

Three heads turned in unison and Joseph exclaimed, ‘You might warn me when you’re about to appear like that from the apartment, I almost jumped out of my skin! You can come in, the coast is clear.’

Tasha appeared behind Victor.

‘Mademoiselle Tasha! How lovely to see you!’

‘I’m happy to see you too, Jojo. I’ve been missing your moujik features.’

She went up to Denise, who got to her feet, blushing.

‘Hello, Mademoiselle, you must be Denise? Monsieur Legris told me about your troubles. I can help out for a few days if that would suit you. I have a little room in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. It’s not luxurious, but you no one will disturb you there and you will have a superb view of the rooftops of Paris.’

‘Thank you, Madame, it’s too good of you!’

‘Call me Tasha. And it’s a pleasure – I know what it’s like to be homeless. Here’s the key. Joseph will take you; he knows where it is. I hope you don’t mind, Joseph?’

‘You can take a cab,’ put in Victor.

‘A cab? No, I don’t mind at all! Shall we go straight away?’

‘If you like,’ replied Tasha. ‘I’ve left some provisions; don’t hesitate to help yourself. And … please excuse the mess. Oh, one other thing. The roof leaks, and the owner keeps putting off calling the tiler, so don’t move the buckets.’

Not knowing how to show her gratitude, Denise nervously crumpled her dress between her fingers. She looked anxiously from Victor to Tasha. ‘Monsieur Legris, would it be too much to ask you to get me a reference if you see Madame de Valois, because it will be very difficult for me to find a position if I don’t have a reference and …’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll write you one since your mistress is not here.’

The schoolboy made his way towards the door, murmuring, ‘I’ll think about it.’

No one paid much attention to him. Uneasy, Victor tried to appear nonchalant by tapping the bust of Molière. Tasha gave him a stern look and murmured in his ear: ‘Well, what a coincidence – the girl just happens to be employed by Madame de Valois? Suppose we discuss your dear friend Madame Froufrou?’

‘Women, they’re all devils, they would lead a saint astray! That Josephine, for example … Hey, are you listening to me?’

Père Moscou’s neighbour nodded, slowly pouring some water on to a slotted spoon with sugar in it. The liquid dripped into a glass half full of clear alcohol that bubbled and thickened like a magic potion and turned a yellowish colour, verging on emerald green.

‘Ferdinand, you shouldn’t touch the green fairy; it eats you from the inside and you’ll become addicted to it – it’ll drive you crazy. Do as I do: stick to the juice of the grape, or beer, even though all they serve in this dive is cat’s piss!’

While the other man mumbled and groaned, Old Moscou looked around in disgust at the tavern, where he had wasted the last hour. It was next to the undertaker’s at 104 Rue d’Aubervilliers and the room, with its black wall hangings, was full of undertakers’ men, who had come to relax after a trip to one of the many Parisian cemeteries. Whether they had been to officiate at Charonne, Montparnasse or Vaugirard or whether they had gone as far as Ivry or Bagneux, the coffin bearers only wanted one thing: to cheer themselves up with a glass of rough red wine whilst exchanging bawdy anecdotes. That is, if they didn’t prefer to abuse themselves with absinthe.

‘I buried her, that treacherous Josephine Bonaparte. She sold the secrets Napoleon told her in bed to Fouché3 and I swear, Ferdinand, that no one will ever discover her body!’

There were guffaws and a man with three chins shouted: ‘Hey, Moscou! You’re pickled, you’re seeing bodies everywhere! If I were you, Féfé, I’d change tables – he might mistake you for a stiff and dig you a hole!’

Père Moscou swung round furiously in his chair. ‘You’d better belt up! That’s just like you, Grouchy!’

‘Grouchy? Who on earth’s that?’ asked the fat man, guffawing.

‘Someone who didn’t dare face the cannons!’ thundered Père Moscou.

‘You and your cannons! You’ve been knocking them back, haven’t you, old man?’

The undertakers laughed even louder. The old man rose in a dignified manner and, hand on heart, launched into a tirade.

‘I’ve also had my time with the dead. The rich ones we called salmon, the poor ones herrings. I dug graves at Père-Lachaise for thirty-seven years, while you were all still wet behind the ears! Then one day they said to me, “Your time is up; make way for the young uns!” If my mate Barnabé hadn’t looked out for me, if he hadn’t let me collect things and show people around on the quiet, I might as well have curled up and died. That’s what you can look forward to! When your paws are covered with callouses from burying folk, it’s you who will be balancing on the edge of the abyss. So, a bit of respect, please!’

Shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, he tore off his hat and angrily scratched his head.

‘You mark my words, you’ll see!’

In the silence that followed, he sat down again. Hunched over his wine, he mumbled to himself, but the names ‘Grouchy’ and ‘Josephine’ could be heard. When he was certain that no one was paying attention to him any more, he felt around in the recesses of his trousers and pulled out some gloves rolled in a ball, some nails, three five-sou pieces, a handkerchief, and then let out an oath. Still cursing through his teeth, he began to rummage feverishly in his other clothes.

Confound it, hell and damnation, where have they got to? I’ve lost them! … No, here they are!

He pulled out the jewels that he had removed that morning from the dead woman and rolled them in the palm of his hand, considering them, confusedly persuading himself that they belonged to ‘Chausette Fine Deux Boyards Ney’.4 He opened the cover of the locket. Bewildered, he looked at a portrait of a smiling young man with a moustache. Narrowing his eyes, he leant over to examine the face more closely and he thought he saw it move.

‘Who are you? Fouché? Grouchy? You’re certainly not the little corporal, that you’re not! You want to make a fool of me, eh? You’re wrong, Hector! I might be a bit fuddled, but if ever I crossed you in the street, I would remember you as if I’d always known you. Your mug is engraved on my memory.’

He drained his glass, stowed away all his odds and ends and, holding the jewels tight in his hand, went out into the street, where rows of hearses were parked.

Just as Joseph was helping Denise out of the cab that had taken them to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, a cyclist came screeching to a halt. She was wearing culottes, revealing plump calves, made more so by her tightly laced ankle boots. Her plaited grey hair was tied up on the top of her head, making her look like a little girl dressed up as a middle-aged woman. She was tangled in the pedals and was about to fall off when Joseph rushed over to catch her. The bicycle fell to the ground with a metallic thud.

‘Mademoiselle Becker, you’ll have to learn to control that animal!’

‘Monsieur Joseph! Danke schön, so kind, so kind. Without you I would have fallen flat on my face.’

As she straightened her clothes, a second carriage slowed down on the other side of the street. The curtain was pulled back slightly. Mademoiselle Becker, Denise, Joseph and the bicycle disappeared into the carriage entrance of number 60. The curtain fell back in place and the second carriage moved slowly on.

Out of breath, Joseph put the bicycle down on the mat outside an apartment on the first floor. ‘There, the beast is tethered! Don’t let it escape.’

‘Danke, Monsieur Joseph. Are you going to see Mademoiselle Tasha? I think she’s gone out.’

‘She’s entrusted her key to me; she’s putting up a cousin who’s come to visit Paris.’

‘Have you just arrived from the Ukraine?’ Mademoiselle Becker asked Denise.

Joseph added, ‘One of my cousins. I’m going to act as her guide. See you soon, Mademoiselle Becker.’

They hurried up the stairs, not pausing until they reached the fourth floor.

‘That was the owner,’ explained Joseph. ‘They call her Madame Vulture, because she’s constantly on the watch for tenants trying to scarper without paying their rent. So it’s better if we make her think that you’re my cousin. I hope you’re not too tired – there are still two more floors to go.’

‘I’m used to stairs.’

‘I’m not. I haven’t even been up the Eiffel Tower; heights give me vertigo. Have you been up it?’

‘I would love to,’ murmured Denise, ‘apparently it’s worth it for the view.’

‘It’s also worth coming here for the view!’ exclaimed Joseph who had just opened Tasha’s door.

The garret was full of frames and paintings – views of rooftops and a few male nudes – perched on easels or lying on the floor. Several pairs of gloves were strewn over the hastily made bed. The chairs were covered with clothes and the table was barely visible under a heap of sketches, dirty plates, palettes and paintbrushes.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll tidy up – I’m also used to doing that.’

‘Don’t tidy too much, otherwise Mademoiselle Tasha won’t be able to find anything,’ Joseph advised her, as he went into the tiny room that served both as kitchen and bathroom. He fetched a jug of water and two glasses that he wiped with his handkerchief. He went back to the bedroom to find that Denise had put her packages on the bed.

‘What are you hiding in there? Notebooks?’

She opened the package and revealed the chromolithograph of a Madonna praying, her head wreathed in a halo.

‘It’s The Madonna in Blue, she watches over me. There’s a similar one on one of the windows in the Saint-Corentin Cathedral in Quimper. Every Sunday I prayed to her to make my wishes come true.’

‘And you lug it around everywhere with you? It’s a bit of an encumbrance. My mother gives me a rabbit’s foot as a lucky charm each time she cooks a …’

Denise burst into tears.

‘Don’t cry, the rabbit is already dead, of course.’

‘Madame’s going to be furious, because that picture doesn’t belong to me. It’s the one she wanted to take to Monsieur’s funerary chapel, but I switched it for the Archangel Saint Michel. When I ran away, yesterday evening, I took it with me because I like it so much, but it’s not stealing, just borrowing. I’m going to give it back, I swear.’

Not understanding what she was talking about, Joseph awkwardly offered her his handkerchief.

‘The Virgin Mary, Archangel Saint Michel, what’s the difference? Come on, dry your eyes or you’ll have a nose as large as a potato. You’ll like it in this room, you’ll see, everything will work out.’

While he was comforting her, he discreetly turned the nudes to face the wall.

‘I imagine it’s not much fun being all alone in Paris without any family. Especially living with Madame Odette. That woman came several times to the shop acting like the Empress of India. She was not the right kind of woman for Monsieur Legris. Look, tomorrow’s Sunday, why don’t I show you around the neighbourhood? We could stroll as far as the Grands Boulevards where there’s a carnival on and a roller coaster. Afterwards we’ll go to my mother’s house for dinner – she’s the queen of frites! You do like frites, don’t you?’

She nodded yes. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘I’ll read you the first chapter of my book.’

‘You write books? Do you know The Oracle for Ladies and Girls?

‘I specialise in crime stories.’

‘Like the ones that I saw in your shop window? What’s the title?’

Joseph hesitated, it was the first time he had revealed his secret. No one, not even Valentine de Salignac, the love of his life, knew about his literary activity.

‘It’s called Blood and Love.’

‘Love … I prefer love to blood.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s much more love than blood, but, you know, you have to make some concessions to please the reading public.’

He bowed somewhat grandly, and kissed her hand, happy to be able to try out his best manners on this naïve young girl, before addressing himself to the niece of the Comtesse. Blushing, Denise stayed rooted to the spot long after the young man had departed.

He rushed down the stairs imagining himself in an embrace with Valentine. As he left, he gave a friendly greeting to a young man hanging about on the pavement clutching a bouquet of flowers.