The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "M. Chief Inspector!"

  The mood was broken. Malet's eyes flickered and he turned toward the door. "What is it?" he demanded.

  Elise slid from his arms and stepped back, shaken.

  The door burst open to admit two breathless and disheveled troopers of the city patrol, along with Claude, who was protesting volubly and uttering alternating threats and pleas.

  "These mannerless boobies insisted in charging in here, Madame!" he said to Elise. "I tried - "

  "M. l'Inspecteur, there is - " said the head trooper.

  Elise's heart lurched with sudden panic; her hand flew to her breast.

  "Wait a moment, you specimen of an ape!" cried Claude. "You're upsetting the lady!"

  "Hold your tongues!" snapped Malet. He skewered the three men with a glare, then rose, drew a chair forward for Elise, and waited until she was seated. "Now tell me the meaning of this unseemly uproar."

  The second trooper offered a folded piece of paper without comment.

  Malet took it, opened it, and read. He raised his head after a moment. "Rioting in this rain?" he said. He shook his head. "You - " he nodded to the first man. "Go back to your commander and tell him to hold the line. You - " this to the second, as he took out his pencil and wrote swiftly on the message, "Take this note to the Prefecture. I have given instructions there. I will follow you directly. Now go. As for you, M. Kerouac, if you'd be kind enough to bring the dry coat and hat from my rooms, I'd be grateful."

  Claude bowed and left, followed by the troopers.

  Elise watched them leave and then looked up at Malet. "What is it?" she asked.

  "Some looting in the 5th arrondissement," said Malet. "By the river, in one of the poorer sections. It started half an hour ago and has gotten out of hand. The Chief Inspector for that arrondissement reports two men are shot and has appealed for assistance to the Prefecture. I will bring reinforcements."

  "B‑but you aren't going yourself, are you?" she asked faintly, caught by the thought of him in danger.

  "I have no choice," said Malet as he cast an eye over his pistols.

  Claude returned with his coat and hat, and held them as Malet shrugged himself into the coat with a word of thanks.

  Elise watched him turn toward the door. "Wait!" she said. "Your umbrella!"

  He turned back, eyed the umbrella with the hint of a grin, and said, "I think I will leave it here. Don't have anyone wait up for me. God alone knows how long I will be."

  He was out the door the next moment.

  XXXIII

  CONSTANT DRACQUET LEARNS THAT

  'IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED TRY, TRY AGAIN'

  DOES NOT APPLY TO MATTERS INVOLVING PAUL MALET

  The next day was sunny, clear and warmer. The sky was a mild vibrant blue, and the west wind was soft and somehow playful. It tugged at the hems of the ladies' dresses, whisked at the edges of shawls and pushed leaves before it. The Jardin du Luxembourg was crowded with people enjoying the sunshine and laughing at the foppish gentlemen chasing their hats. Paul Malet was one of the laughers.

  He had found himself with the morning's work finished by 11:30 a.m. He was expected to meet with Count d'Anglars at 3:00 p.m. to discuss the presence of Pierre le Noir and the Duke of Rochester in Paris and what steps to take, but there was nothing else to do until then, and he was too restless with happiness to be able to face the thought of sitting idly in the Prefect's elegant office.

  He had decided to enjoy the gardens at the Luxembourg Palace and then return for a leisurely lunch at his favorite restaurant at the Place du Chatelet. Now he strolled down the main walkway of the gardens and past the octagonal reflecting pool. There were, as usual, crowds of children laughing and squabbling, sailing their little boats on the flashing, rippling waters.

  He paused and watched for a moment, smiling. He had seen a little sailboat once, when he was a child. To that day he could remember how desperately he had yearned for one like it, not knowing that such a toy was as far out of the reach of a prison brat as the moon.

  Children have a capacity for hope that, though often betrayed, is never quite discouraged, and Paul had hoped that somehow, someday he too would have a little sailboat. The fulfillment of that hope still ranked as one of the shining moments of Malet's life, and in his mind he could still see the rakish lines of the sailboat's hull and touch the sails with fingertips that lost none of their awe in the thirty‑six years since he had received the boat.

  Malet's smile deepened; now he knew how Joseph Young had sat up during the long nights smoothing a piece of firewood with a homemade knife that he had carefully hidden from the guards. It must have been painfully slow work, but he had done it, for his Pippin, the adopted son of his old age, had to have his toy.

  Malet saw a little boy hovering at the edge of the basin, wistfully watching the sailboats; he went to the pavilion set up to one side, paid several sous for the rental of a boat, and then went over to the lone child.

  "Here, son," he said, giving the boat to the boy, "Go ahead and sail it. Return it to those fellows there - " he pointed, " - when you're through."

  He nodded to the child and turned down one of the subordinate paths of the park that led to the southwest corner of the gardens, where the walkways wound through unexpected stands of trees and secluded nooks. He followed the path to a cul‑de‑sac and sat down on a bench overlooking a bed of chrysanthemums. He folded his hands in his lap and raised his face into the wind to watch the trees swaying before him.

  He felt as light‑hearted as a boy. The memory of the past evening lingered on, filling him with warmth that effaced even his increasing concentration as he closed in on Constant Dracquet. Everything around him, the trees and flowers, the strollers, even the warm old stones of the Luxembourg palace, seemed to glow with a reflection of his happiness.

  He loved Elise de Clichy. That was no surprise, certainly, but he knew now that she loved him. How could he doubt it after a night like last night, with his heart still quivering with the memory of her embraces? And yet, feeling for her as he did, he knew that he would have to be very careful with her. She had the power to intoxicate him, and who knew where matters might have ended, with her so warm and willing in his arms, if those troopers hadn't knocked on the door at the precise moment that they had? That must not happen again. He couldn't risk compromising her.

  But all was well. The rioting had been a minor affair after all, over within two hours, at the same time the rain had ceased. There had been two casualties among the Police called in, but Malet was confident that they would recover. He had snatched a quick, light meal of coffee and bread at the Prefecture and then returned to the Rose d'Or to find Elise waiting anxiously for him.

  She had not spoken of what had passed between them before he left. Instead, she had assured herself that he wasn't hurt and then said, "The rain is over and I saw some stars through the clouds. Can we go for a walk together?"

  Although Malet had not forgotten Count d'Anglars' caution about the presence of Pierre le Noir in Paris meaning possible danger to him, the prospect of an hour or two alone with Elise under the stars had outweighed caution. He had made one concession by engaging a cab to take them to the Tuileries gardens, where he judged that the crowds would afford them some measure of safety. He had taken his pistols with him and resolved to be careful - and then forgot everything in the pleasure of her company.

  They had walked arm in arm through the rain‑silvered streets for what had seemed like hours, talking of everything and anything while the warming air sent streamers of mist upward from the pavement.

  Elise had spoken of her girlhood in the Faubourg Saint‑Germain, and then she had wanted to hear about his life in Toulon prison and, later, in the Police. He had told her what he thought was fitting, and she had heard what he left unsaid and took his hand in hers, just for a moment.

  They had strolled through the evening while the lamplighters came and turned the twilight city into a galaxy of soft lights that mirrored
the stars above them. She had wanted him to show her the stars, to point out Orion and Pegasus and maybe even see a falling star. And, wonder of wonders, they had seen one arching down over the Place de la Concorde as they passed along the Rue de Rivoli.

  They had driven back to the Rose d'Or and shared one of Yvette's sugar cakes and two tiny glasses of brandy before he rose to take his leave and go up to his rooms. She had held out her hand with a warm smile, and he had bent to kiss it.

  He had held her hand a moment longer, released it, and went out of the salon to the stairs.

  He had mounted the stairs and turned at the landing to look down. She had been smiling quietly up at him from the foot of the stairs, and he had known in that moment that he did not want to live without her.

  Had he not been a paying guest under her roof, he would have gone back down to her there and then, taken her in his arms, and asked for her hand. Instead, he had bowed to her and continued to his room. But he had been smiling, and the smile had lingered through the night and into the next day. It warmed his lips now as he opened his eyes and gazed up at the blue sky.

  He heard a step on the gravel path beside him; he did not look that way, but every sense was suddenly alert. The steps came closer, paused, and then the bench shifted and settled as another man sat down.

  "Good day, Chief Inspector," said a voice beside him.

  Malet's mouth moved in a faint, ironic smile as he said, "Good day, M. Dracquet." He twitched the hem of his coat aside.

  Dracquet was silent for a moment as he looked Malet up and down. "You didn't come to dine with me yesterday," he said at last. "Or the day before. It was discourteous of you. I had two perfectly delicious meals awaiting you, and they went to waste."

  "I told you that I wouldn't come," Malet said.

  "You said you wouldn't say no," said Dracquet.

  "That was after you told me you wouldn't take no for an answer."

  "You're oddly squeamish for a man of your reputation," said Dracquet. "Did you fear an assassination attempt?"

  Malet caught an undertone of anger, but Dracquet's face was bland when he looked up. "I simply don't care to dine with you," he said.

  Dracquet made a distasteful motion with his hands. "Squeamish," he said. "There is still a matter that must be handled between us."

  "I wasn't aware that we needed to have any further direct dealings," said Malet.

  "You're too modest," said Dracquet. "There's much that we can discuss. Our association could be quite lucrative."

  Malet said, "Really? What bribe do you offer me?"

  Dracquet smiled and shook his head. "You're a valuable and dangerous man, Inspector. I am aware of your quality. A bribe won't answer with you."

  "Plain speaking!"

  "Hear plainer speaking, then," said Dracquet. "Bribes are offered all the time. It's merely a question of degree. But I have something more compelling."

  "Oh?" said Malet.

  "Precisely," said Dracquet. He reached into his breast pocket and took out a notebook, which he opened. "I told you that I have assembled a dossier on you. You might be surprised at what is in it - and perhaps even a little chagrined."

  "Chagrined?"

  "Yes."

  "I see. You're going to try to blackmail me."

  "The term is too crude," said Dracquet.

  "Crudeness is a measure of truth at times. But let's continue: you say that I will be chagrined."

  "In a manner of speaking. Colonel Malet." The voice was very intent.

  "This won't answer," Malet said quietly. "I have never been ashamed of my Army service."

  "Is that so?" asked Dracquet. "Then perhaps you can explain your reticence on that head. The Emperor himself gave you a promotion on the battlefield of Smolensk for 'conspicuous gallantry', as he phrased it, and made you a Commander in the Legion of Honor. Surely that is justifiable cause for pride, and yet no one seems to know of it, Colonel. Is it possible that I am speaking with a secret supporter of the Emperor?"

  "All things are possible," Malet said, "But I would think it unlikely if I were you. Leaving aside the fact that Bonaparte is dead, my military career is a matter of public record, even if I don't choose to sound my own trumpet horn. And I am openly drawing a rather large pension from the Legion of Honor."

  Dracquet shrugged. "I am unconvinced," he said. "You left the Police to enter the armies when your career was approaching its zenith. You served as Colonel of France's finest regiment of Horse Artillery from the Russian campaign until you left the army in the fall of 1814. Your prosperity coincides with the Emperor's career, and I find myself wondering if your loyalty might not lie in that direction."

  "My career, army or otherwise, is public record, as we have already discussed," Malet said calmly, folding his hands on the head of his walking stick. "None of it has ever caused me the least bit of shame."

  Dracquet rose and paced a ways down the path. His expression was very thoughtful. He paused to pick a chrysanthemum and set it in his buttonhole before he turned and came back to the bench. "Very well, Monsieur," he said. "Let me be blunt: you have shown your loyalty to France - no, don't bow! You abandoned a promising career to serve four years in the armies - "

  "I was able to resume that 'promising career', as you put it," Malet pointed out, "after I left the armies, and I have risen further in it since then."

  "You didn't know that you could when you joined to fight for the Emperor - "

  "I joined to fight for France."

  Dracquet shrugged. "If you insist!" he said. "The point is that you did join, you did fight, and you did well - "

  "A colonel isn't precisely a commander of armies. There are more colonels in France at the moment than I can shake this walking stick at, and two out of every three legless beggars you see before a church were heroes of France at one point. If your 'dossier' has somehow given you reason to hope that I will wink at any deviltry you're brewing, let me assure you that you are mistaken!"

  "'Deviltry', my dear Colonel?" Dracquet asked in a hurt voice. "You wrong me! And you wrong yourself! Come, sir, I do understand you! You fought at Paris in 1814, at the heights near Montmartre. You must have looked down through the smoke at the city and known that the end had come. You were with the army when it withdrew from Paris. Can you honestly say that you haven't desired a return of the glory of France, even as I do? A departure from the France of today, the doormat of Europe, the laughing‑stock of England!"

  "I would find that speech less nauseating if it were sincere," Malet said. "I have seen the sort of pies you have had your fingers in, and I don't choose to soil my own hands in them. Let us understand each other: I am a Police officer. What's more, I am an honest Police officer, and if you were to offer me a marshal's baton at this moment to close my eyes to anything that you are planning, I would refuse."

  Dracquet sat back against the bench looking wounded. "M. Malet, you wrong me! You're known to be a man of honor and rectitude, and I am merely reminding you where your loyalties lie and offering you a chance to return to them."

  "My loyalties lie with France, as I have told you. If you act against the interests of France, as I believe you do, then I am against you."

  "You haven't given me a chance to present my proposal," Dracquet said.

  "Nor shall I ever," said Malet. "We can have no dealings now or ever."

  "You won't even consider listening to me?" asked Dracquet.

  "Not for a moment!"

  "Old loyalties don't move you?"

  "My loyalty is a very old one," said Malet. "It is to France. Your loyalty is only to Constant Dracquet's power and prosperity."

  Dracquet smoothed his gloves with hands that shook faintly, but his voice was very calm. "You can't mean that," he said.

  "I do," said Malet. "I am the only person in Paris whom you can't fool. I know all about you. You plot your own rise to power. Causes mean nothing to you, and you have turned your back on truth and honor. I say it again: we can have no dealings!"
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  Dracquet sat back and frowned at Malet. "Very well, then," he said. "I am for myself. But who's not? Show me someone who is truly altruistic and I will show you a colossal fool! What's the point of self‑sacrifice? And yet, Malet, we could deal well together. You serve France now, you say: think how you could serve her with the power I could give you!"

  "Come now!" said Malet through his teeth. "You paid a high price for my dossier: didn't you read it? I was Cheat‑Death's chosen successor! Power! I could have been far more powerful than you, but I chose another way. I could destroy you with your own weapons if I chose to pick them up and use them!"

  Dracquet sat back, looking puzzled.

  "To be blunt," Malet continued, "I am not for sale! There's nothing you can say to induce me to go along with you in any venture, though I die for it tomorrow! If you think that I am flattered to have been approached by you, let me assure you that I am not!"

  Dracquet pushed himself to his feet and turned to face Malet. "Every man has a price," he rasped.

  Malet's expression became sardonic. "Your mask is slipping," he said.

  Dracquet's face hardened, but he paused and collected himself. His voice dropped, became almost caressing. He had one last card to play.

  "Your past, as you have said, is public record," he said. "You will forgive me if I speak bluntly, I hope, but I can discern what can only be a heartache for a man of your breeding. Illegitimacy is a bar to many things, including a lady's hand. Women, odd creatures that they are, are often averse to wedding what they have no hesitation in bedding. I could change that. The bastard son of an opera dancer may be barred from social intercourse with the upper crust, but what of the son of Antoinette de Mallebranche and Dominique de Colbert? That is an entirely different matter! My dear Malet, you're better bred than two‑thirds of the people in the Faubourg Saint‑Germain - "

  "This discussion is obscene," said Malet, making a motion to rise.

  Dracquet set an ungentle hand on his shoulder. "Oh come now," he said. "You're being foolish. Only bear in mind that you would be considered an acceptable suitor to a certain well‑bred lady."