The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  Greatly to her surprise, when she reached the Hôtel Caudebec, she found that Louise and Menispe were not yet back from their visit to Mrs. Clarke. It was after Menispe’s bedtime—and unlike Louise to tolerate the child’s company for more than a couple of hours. But perhaps she had decided to wait for the end of the storm before quitting the rue du Bac—rain was now falling in torrents, lightning kept the sky in a purple flicker. Nonetheless, Ellen felt very uneasy; she kept looking from her window into the courtyard, hoping to see the carriage return.

  Presently Véronique the bonne came to the room, somewhat agitated.

  “Mademoiselle Pagette—I have just seen Jules, and he says he did not drive my lady and la petite to Madame Clarke’s house!”

  “He did not? Where, then, did he take them?”

  “My lady said she had shopping commissions to execute; she told Jules to set her down outside Crista, the modiste, and said she would take a fiacre to the rue du Bac when she had done—a fiacre! My lady! Never has she done such a thing. Jules asked, should he not come to fetch her home from Madame Clarke, and she said no, she would return in that lady’s carriage. But she has not done so yet. And it is so late!”

  “Does Monsieur le Comte know this?”

  “Mademoiselle, no, he is not at home.”

  Ellen thought, hurriedly and anxiously: Was this some tactic on the part of Louise—a ruse to escape the family network? A threat, using Menispe as a lever? Had she ordered Jules to set her down in the middle of Paris so that no one would know where she had gone?

  Then reason reasserted itself.

  “Have Jules take the carriage to Madame Clarke’s house; the storm is so severe, perhaps other guests are stranded there. The Comtesse will probably be glad to have her own conveyance. And you had better put a warming pan in Menispe’s bed—poor child, I hope she does not take a chill from this long outing. And she hates thunder—”

  “I have already put a pan in her bed, mademoiselle,” said Véronique loftily, and retired to give the order to Jules.

  Troubled, Ellen paced about her comfortable room. If only Louise had not committed some folly—

  After another half hour, with no sign of the returning carriage, Ellen’s eye was caught by a light in the library. It would be the old Abbé de Grandville; he might have sensible or soothing advice; and his calm company would be better than her own. Ellen flung a shawl round her shoulders, for the storm had brought chill to the air, and took a circuitous way through passages to the other side of the house, since crossing the courtyard was out of the question.

  In the library she found not only the Abbé but an elderly great-aunt of Raoul on his mother’s side, a lady who bore the title of Princess Tanofski, since she had in youth briefly been married to a Polish nobleman. She was exceedingly poor and, having exerted herself to make the journey from Périgord, where she lived in a small pension, had announced her intention of staying in Paris for three weeks, so as to make the most of her great-nephew’s hospitality. She was snugly ensconced in a velvet armchair with her feet on a footstool, her puce merino dress tucked round her, sipping a cup of tisane, and engaged in a theological argument with the Abbé. Both their wrinkled old faces displayed mild irritation as they turned to gaze at Ellen.

  “I beg your pardon, Princess—Monsieur l’Abbé—” Ellen was a little embarrassed. Could she conceivably, she asked herself, have been hoping to find the Comte in here? But no, perish the thought. “I am a little disquieted in my mind about the Countess and Menispe—” She explained the situation.

  Princess Tanofski shrugged; evidently no folly on the part of Louise would surprise her; but the Abbé suggested, “May not the Countess have gone to take counsel with her aunt at the Britannic Embassy?”

  “But no, monsieur; Lady Morningquest is still out of town, at Etretat.”

  “Might it be possible that Louise, on the spur of the moment, decided to go there and see Miladi Morningquest?”

  Ellen accepted this idea with relief.

  “Thank you, monsieur. Perhaps that may be so. If—if the Countess does not return soon, do you think we should telegraph Lady Morningquest?”

  “Where is Raoul?” demanded his great-aunt. “Out gambling, I suppose, or at a bordello, when he should be at home watching over his affairs.”

  Ellen felt this was a hard judgment, and the Abbé shrugged, evidently sharing her sentiment.

  “I do not think we should wait for the Comte’s return to telegraph,” Ellen said. “When—if Jules returns without them—if the Countess has not been at Mrs. Clarke’s—”

  “Perhaps she has gone to that terrible demon girl of Lesbos—what is her name? Justine? The de Rhetorée chit,” suggested Princess Tanofski.

  Ellen thought this hardly probable. Would Louise take refuge in Germaine’s squalid den—Louise, who was so fastidious that she would not touch fruit or even flowers unless they had been washed? And the Abbé shook his head.

  “They had a bitter quarrel,” he said knowledgeably. “I do not think we shall be seeing so much of Mademoiselle de Rhetorée—”

  At this moment Véronique tapped and entered the room, her pleasant face deeply distressed. As she curtseyed, Ellen reflected how involved the servants were in all that concerned the family—witness the speed with which Véronique had tracked her to this spot. Nothing that passed went unobserved.

  “Madame la Princesse—Mademoiselle—Jules has returned, and he reports that my mistress never went to Mrs. Clarke’s house! Mrs. Clarke had not been expecting her!”

  “Tiens,” said the Abbé. “This begins to look serious; it has the air of a flitting. Miserable girl!” His pale, pouched old face was extremely condemning.

  “Well, if she has run away,” said the Princess cheerfully, “that will make it easy for Raoul to divorce her.”

  “Are you mad, Séraphine? The la Fertés do not divorce!”

  “But, Théodule, consider the succession!”

  The ensuing argument was cut short by the entry of Ernest, the majordomo, who looked excessively shocked. He was accompanied by two men in frock coats and top hats.

  “Monsieur l’Abbé—I do not know if I do right to come to you—but Monsieur le Comte being from home—these two gentlemen are from the Police Department—”

  “Oh, mon dieu, what now?” demanded the Princess shrilly.

  But the Abbé, with mild dignity, said, “Certainly you were right, Ernest. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Stiffly the two men explained their errand. They had been summoned by a hysterical concierge in a tenement off the rue de Langlade, who declared that she had heard pistol shots in her attic apartment.

  “Oh, no!” whispered Ellen.

  Mounting to the top floor, the police had effected entry, and had discovered two bodies, that of a lady and a child, both well dressed, persons of quality. The terrified concierge had told some garbled story about her attic tenant being acquainted with a wealthy lady, the Comtesse de la Ferté.

  “And where, meanwhile, was the tenant?” demanded the Abbé.

  “She was not there, monsieur. Accordingly, lacking positive identification, we made bold to come here—”

  The Abbé was already rising painfully to his feet, tightening the fringed sash about his cassock. He took a heavy cloak from a peg under the gallery, and said to the policemen, “Messieurs, who is more fit for a deathbed than a priest? If that is what you require, I am ready to do what is necessary.”

  “Oh, Théodule, you will catch some dreadful illness, or an inflammation of the lungs. Hark how it rains! And the rue de Langlade is a most infamous quarter!”

  “Be silent, Séraphine,” said the Abbé firmly. “It is my duty to go.” Addressing Ellen, he added, “Perhaps, mademoiselle, you had best come too. If by any chance either of these unfortunates—supposing them to be whom we think they are—were found to be still l
iving—”

  “There is no question of that, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said the senior officer.

  But Ellen, shivering, said, “Of course I will accompany you, monsieur.”

  * * *

  The journey through the glossy, dark, dripping streets was a silent one. By Parisian standards the hour was not late, but the rain had driven most people indoors. The Abbé told his beads as they rode along, Ellen huddled silently in her corner. All too soon they arrived in front of the tall, narrow house, where Ellen recognized the wineshop, the portress’s niche, the greasy stairs. Trembling, she followed the three men up the dark flights.

  Germaine’s bare rooms looked very different now, glaringly lit by gas flares and a number of lanterns. Two more police stood mounting guard while a third prowled about making notes. On the dismal bed lay something covered with a sheet from which Ellen averted her eyes, but not before she had seen the pool of dark liquid which had dripped onto the boards below. A flounce of creamy muslin dangled to the floor, its hem dabbled and stained dark brown.

  “Wait by the door if you please, mademoiselle,” said the senior officer.

  Ellen felt she could not have moved; she stood transfixed as the Abbé walked quietly to the bedside, lifted the sheet, and glanced at what lay beneath. Then he replaced the soiled calico and stepped back, his eyes meeting those of the senior officer.

  “It is the Comtesse de la Ferté and her daughter,” he said.

  “You are certain, monsieur?”

  “No doubt whatever.”

  “Then I need detain you no longer. I am sorry that you should have been obliged to come to this wretched place, mademoiselle,” the man said to Ellen, who replied mechanically, “It did not matter. But—are you certain they are dead, monsieur? There is no possible chance that—”

  “None, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, how dreadful. Oh, poor Monsieur le Comte!”

  “Come, my child,” said the Abbé. “We had best return to the Hôtel Caudebec to break this sad news to him… I infer,” he said to the police, “that the bodies will be brought there, when you have taken such measures as you think fit?”

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  All the way home in the carriage the Abbé was murmuring the Office for the Dead. Ellen did not like to interrupt him to ask questions. But Princess Tanofski, when they were back in the Hôtel Caudebec, instantly demanded, “Well? Was it Louise? And the child?” The Abbé bowed his head. “And they were dead? Both dead? Oh, what lunatic folly! What had the poor sacrilegious idiot done—taken poison?”

  “No,” said the Abbé. “They were both shot through the head.”

  “Oh, mon dieu! How shall we break it to Raoul?”

  “You do not need to do that, Tante Séraphine,” said Raoul’s voice. They all whirled round to see him standing in the doorway. He was ashy pale, and held a half sheet of paper. “I found this letter from Louise on my desk,” he said, and read it aloud. “‘You and your family have driven me too far. So I plan to escape from you all and I shall take Menispe with me. I know you pretend to love her—but I know, too, that if she grew up, you would condemn her to the same grotesque slavery for which you destined me. Perhaps the thought of her may cause you an instant’s regret. I know you had no pity for me. Louise.’”

  Raoul’s voice cracked with misery as he read the letter. He cried at them, “We killed her, among us! Do you deny it? Poor, poor wretched girl. All she wanted was to read and write and talk about philosophy—now she is dead and gone to hell! She was only twenty-two! And Menispe was four. And it is our fault.”

  “Nonsense, Raoul,” said the Princess sharply. “She was a silly, selfish, hysterical girl. No blame attaches to you—or to the family. Good heavens, you gave her everything in the world—”

  “It is true, my son,” said the Abbé. “You have no cause to blame yourself. We are all fallible, le bon dieu knows—but you behaved with generosity and restraint in very trying circumstances. Why should Louise take it upon herself to find fault with the normal lot of women?”

  Why should she not? Ellen thought. But she did not speak this thought aloud. Raoul had sunk miserably onto a velvet couch, his head in his hands; she felt she had no right to be there, witnessing his grief and remorse.

  “I will return to my room, Princess,” she whispered. “Unless I can do anything for you?”

  “Yes; you can escort me to my room,” said that lady. “We will leave Monsieur l’Abbé to console my nephew. Give me your arm, child,” and, leaning heavily on Ellen, she hobbled upstairs, and sank into a fauteuil by her own fireside.

  “Asseyez-vous, mon enfant,” she ordered Ellen, “for there is much to discuss. We shall all need to proceed with the utmost discretion, if there is not to be an atrocious scandal after this disastrous act. Louise was, after all, well known in society, and in literary circles—it cannot be hushed up. Thank heaven she at least left a note admitting her intentions—otherwise the police and certainly the public would assume that Raoul had done it.”

  Ellen was horrified.

  “Do you really think so, Princess?”

  “Indeed yes. If the press can make matters worse, they always will. Or maybe they will say the de Rhetorée girl killed Louise, out of jealousy. Or”—the shrewd, prune-brown eyes raked Ellen’s face dispassionately—“they will say Raoul was conducting an amour with you, Miss Paget, and Louise discovered, and so made an end of herself.”

  “Madame!” Ellen felt herself flush crimson, and hoped the firelight disguised it.

  “Oh, they will say all those things, you may be sure. For Raoul’s sake, you had best be out of this house tomorrow. Or—wait—there will be all the funeral notices to dispatch; it is most unfortunate that Raoul’s mother had to return to Rome, silly woman; perhaps you had better stay till that is dealt with. My presence in the house will lend propriety to the situation, I daresay. But after that you had better take refuge with Lady Morningquest.”

  “Oh, she will be so dreadfully distressed. I must telegraph her tomorrow.”

  Ellen felt a pang of horror and guilt as she remembered her godmother saying, “Why should you not become a friend to Louise?” I did make the attempt, she told herself, but the voice of conscience retorted, “You could have tried a great deal harder. The truth is, you did not like her.” I tried my very best with little Menispe, she argued—and then, realizing fully for the first time that she would never again have Menispe’s waywardness and inattention to battle against, she broke down and cried bitterly, for the first time in many years. The tears surprised her as much as they did Princess Tanofski, who exclaimed, “Tiens, you were so fond of Louise, then? I had not remarked it.”

  “No, but of that poor little child,” Ellen sobbed, trying to master herself.

  “So? But I had thought she was almost imbecile, no great loss,” remarked the Princess callously. “Tant pis. But now Raoul may marry again, and, we hope, get a male heir. Ring the bell, if you please, Miss Paget; I am an old lady and must have my goûter du soir.”

  Chilled by the old lady’s ruthless practicality, Ellen did so, then took her leave and went to her own room; she did not feel as if she could ever eat or drink again. The image of the two recumbent shapes under the sheet in Germaine’s dirty room returned to haunt her; and for the first time, she thought: Where is Germaine? Why was she not there? Why did she not try to dissuade Louise from doing what she did? Or—a touch of icy grue—perhaps she was there? Did she have some hand in the business? Could her lack of sympathy, her displeasure, or her cynical attempt to persuade Louise to conform to family pressure have been the last straw?

  But Germaine could hardly have wished Louise dead, for now she had lost her goose that laid the golden eggs.

  Nine

  Next day the Hôtel Caudebec was hushed and stricken, as servants crept dolefully about, emissaries from the police came and went, unfeeli
ng callers who had got wind of the affair left cards with inquisitive or commiserating messages, and Ellen, at the Princess’s direction, wrote innumerable cards, summoning back the members of the family who had just left Paris. The two bodies had been released by the police, and the funeral was fixed for the following Wednesday. But apparently police inquiries were still proceeding; the officers had read the letter left by Louise for Raoul and were not satisfied that it denoted an intention to make away with herself.

  At about noon a note came which was addressed to Ellen.

  From Lady Morningquest, was her first thought; but Lady Morningquest would never send any communication on a grimy, torn half sheet of paper sealed by a greasy wafer. She slit the paper and read:

  “I presume you will be going out to take the air, or to buy black gloves? I shall be choosing a cravat in the Bon Marché at 1:00 and will hope to see you. G.”

  The black spiky handwriting was very familiar; in fact Ellen still had a half-translated manuscript of Germaine’s in her possession. She wondered whether to take it with her to this assignation; then decided not. That would look—wouldn’t it?—as if she intended to break off the association.

  The Bon Marché was, as usual, crowded with bourgeois matrons taking advantage of the large display of wares at low prices; it was some little time before Ellen recognized the unassertive young workman in belted blouse and corduroys, his black cap pulled forward over his eyes, who stood, hands in pockets, gazing doubtfully at a table covered with neckerchiefs.

  His gaze moved to Ellen at last, he gave her a slight nod, or jerk of the head, and sauntered casually toward one of the exits.

  Just outside the door: “Where shall we go to talk? Down by the river?” said Germaine.