Larouche thought it was somehow fitting that he, who had helped to provide the weapons for the fight, should be facing Monseigneur, who would be doing the fighting.
But now what to say?
Possibilities presented themselves.
You speak with an accent. Where do you come from? That would probably lead to a snub.
I am glad those assassins didn't kill you at Montmartre. No, Monseigneur might wish to bring him in for questioning.
Is my information useful to you? The same would go for that one: Monseigneur would want to question him.
Larouche paused and considered saying, Would you like to come with me and eat some supper? He wished he could say it, but he was afraid of what would happen if Monseigneur said he would. Where would they go from there?
None of them sounded right. It was no use. What could he say, after all, to this high‑ranking cop? What could the two of them possibly have in common other than the fact that they lived in the same city?
He looked up from under the bill of the cap and said, "You got a sou you can spare, Mister?"
Monseigneur's expression altered from its calm smile. He seemed to be trying to pierce through the thick cloth cap and see the face beneath. His mouth twisted slightly, but he inclined his head, took out his billfold, opened it - and then closed it and put it back in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He reached, instead, into his watch‑pocket and took out a small leather change purse. He opened it, shook its contents into his hand, frowned down at the coins for a moment, and then selected two.
"Here," he said, offering them.
Larouche took them and nodded. "Thanks, Mister," he said.
Monseigneur returned the nod. "But, really, it is I who should thank you, son," he said softly.
Larouche put the coins in his pocket without looking at them and pushed away from the railing. "Well," he said, "So long, Mister. It's been nice talking to you."
"And to you, as well," said Monseigneur with the hint of a bow. He was using the formal mode of address such as he might use with another of his age and rank.
That made Larouche pause. He looked up at Monseigneur and saw that he had pulled off his right glove and was holding out his hand. Larouche hesitated, then shyly wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers and shook hands with Monseigneur.
He wished that he could say something else, but there was nothing else to say. Instead, he took his hat off and looked full into the man's eyes for a moment before he finally left. He headed south across the Pont des Arts toward the Institut de France.
"Please be careful, child," Monseigneur said quietly after him.
Larouche turned, but there was nothing to say, and so he merely bowed and then continued on his way. Monseigneur didn't move, but Larouche was aware of his gaze following him along the street.
He looked at the coins when he got to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Monseigneur had given him two gold Napoleons.
** ** **
Paul Malet watched the boy leave, frowning a little. He had been aware of the child following him from the British Embassy; he had stopped at the Pont des Arts partly because he wanted to see who he was and prove or disprove several theories that he had about the child's identity. He decided, seeing the boy, that he had been right: this was the mysterious young informant who had cracked the case for him.
It isn't often that one comes face to face with one's own ghost, but that child could have been him at seven, sharp‑eyed, pinched with hunger, and a little furtive. It had taken courage for the boy to gather his information as he had. The gold was a sort of recognition of that courage as well as a salute from vanquished to victor, for Malet knew now that this boy was the stone‑thrower. And the stone‑thrower had saved his life.
He sighed and took off his hat. The child had wanted to say something: he wondered what it had been.
LVIII
THE EVE OF THE HUNT
Larouche's third note had been delivered on Monday. Malet acted on it immediately. Dracquet's movements were carefully watched; Malet personally reviewed all information and sent summaries on to Count d'Anglars.
The British Embassy confirmed its support of the actions of the French Police in this matter, and Sir Robert Peel asked to be kept advised of developments.
All the information received confirmed the report of the child informer. The meeting would take place on Wednesday, and the Police were ready to move in at a moment's notice.
In the midst of all this activity, to the surprise of all who were interested in the actions of the Police High Command, Count d'Anglars announced his plans for a formal dinner party on Wednesday night, and issued invitations to all the top police, army and government officials in Paris.
On Tuesday afternoon, Georges Plougastel brought over a final message from Michaud.
** ** **
I have looked into the order placed by Monsieur and find that the originally projected delivery date is too soon. I will be unable to bring the goods to him until Wednesday, probably at some time early in the evening.
I understand that some assistance will be available: three men will be there to assist, if needed, but they would be best pleased if word does not get around concerning their availability, since it could lead to inquiries on the part of those not willing to pay them or avail themselves of their services.
If Monsieur is interested in the date given for delivery, he would be best advised to speak to the interested parties on Wednesday.
I am told that there will be a large number of people present with varying types of equipment, all skilled in their use. Monsieur would be wise to plan accordingly.
In addition, the matter at hand will be of extremely pressing urgency, concerning conflict as it will, so they may very well be displeased at any interruption, especially one man of foreign birth. Nevertheless, I have confirmed the date, and it will be Wednesday.
If Monsieur desires to purchase or arrange the delivery of any further goods, I must refer him to my various colleagues in Paris, with whom he is no doubt more familiar than I. I have made arrangements to return to the south, there to retire, and will be maintaining no ties with my former colleagues.
I thank Monsieur for his considerable kindness, and beg leave to extend to him my deepest respect.
Joseph Michaud
Malet set the note on the table before him and gazed unseeingly out the window onto the street. Michaud was being very circumspect, but it didn't take much imagination to understand what he was saying.
Everything was ready. If all went as it ought, Dracquet would soon be in custody, and Malet would be leaving the Rose d'Or. He would then be able to address Elise without any fear of offending or compromising her. He drew a deep breath and folded the message away.
He rose and paced across his rooms. He was restless. It always happened before he went into action, and this time was no different from the times in Spain or Russia or Germany. He had to get out of doors, to stand beneath the sky and feel the night wind against his face. His bodyguard had gone home, but what of it? Malet could take care of himself, and both Michaud and the child informer had reported that Dracquet had pulled in all his muscle. There was no fear of attack that night.
He swung his coat about his shoulders and hesitated over his hat. He shrugged finally. For once, he would not wear one. His sword was nearby, propped against the wall; he left it there and instead took his two pistols, made certain that they were loaded and primed, and then put them in the pockets of his coat with some extra cartridges and percussion caps.
He stepped out into the hallway. If he turned left he would be heading toward the main stairway. A right turn brought him to the servants' stair, which took him down behind the kitchens and out by the stables. He descended the stairs and paused at the bottom to listen. He could hear Elise's chuckle, then Georges' light baritone responding.
He smiled to himself and went out the door.
The night sky opened above him, vast and still. If he stood quietly and waited he
might hear, distant and clear, the music of the spheres.
The music of the spheres! He hadn't understood what that meant when he was a child. He had thought that the spheres - and by them he meant the stars - chimed as the wind blew across them, and sometimes he could hear the high, distant, sweet ringing that was less a sound than the echo of a longing in his own heart. It was still there, but the music faded if he listened too carefully.
He took a deep breath of the cool night air and stepped onto the street, where he hailed a passing fiacre and had the man drive him to the Place de la Bastille. Along the way, he watched the passing blur of lighted windows moving past the windows of the cab.
Once at the Place de la Bastille, he paid the cabby and then paused to gaze at the silhouette of his headquarters before following the Boulevard Bourdon along the quiet, shining waters of the Port de Plaisance toward the Quai Henri IV.
He began to sing, exuberant snatches of tunes that suited the lift in his steps. What a magnificent night! What a splendid sky above him, still bright with the last traces of sunset! How beautiful the city was now, glowing with street lamps and the soft shine of lamplight through lace‑curtained windows!
Passers-by smiled and greeted him, and he returned their salutations with a smile. All was well with him: the night was beautiful, those he loved were happy, he was in splendid health, and tomorrow held the prospect of an excellent hunt.
He was at the Pont de Sully now, with the Île St. Louis before him, the windows of its tall houses glowing in the night. He crossed to the island and strolled along the tree‑lined Quai d'Anjou, looking up at the night sky through the lace‑like tracery of branches. Now he was at the Quai de Bourbon, approaching the Pont Durosse, his favorite of the old stone Seine bridges.
The bridge linked the Quai de Bourbon with the right bank. He could stand there and survey the Hotel de Ville with its high, gabled roof, and, closer, enjoy the almost Romanesque outline of the church of St. Gervais. He could see the spire of the cathedral of Notre Dame and, beyond it, the broad‑shouldered bulk of its towers. Now, silhouetted against the eastern sky and catching the last glow of sunset, they seemed to sparkle.
He leaned back against the railing with a happy sigh and looked up at the sky. Pegasus was galloping across the southwestern sky. Malet remembered the dreams he had had as a child, of swinging astride that great white back, seizing a handful of that billowing mane, and soaring with him across the stars.
Across from Pegasus, in the northeast, was Taurus the bull. Hercules was setting in the west, and Polaris shone to the north, clear and constant. They had been his companions, guards and comforters from the time he was a child. He smiled up at them and then let his eyes sweep across the glitter of the Milky Way. How distant they were, how serene and pure, the guardians of the sky, looking down on the tiny constellation that was Paris, making the concerns of her citizens seem so small and insignificant in comparison!
It was wonderfully restful to lean back and gaze up at them. But, Malet thought regretfully, he was not Hercules or Orion, and he did not ride Pegasus. He was one of the guardians of Paris, and he had important work to do.
He surveyed the earthbound rat that was Constant Dracquet and began to smile again. Dracquet would be finished for good and all within the next twenty‑four hours. He would menace no one ever again. He would never again be able to hire killers to snuff out the lives of those who opposed him. Never again would that impostor roam at liberty, usurping the name and house of Victor‑Marie Dracquet, who had been Paul Malet's best friend before he was shot by a sniper while they were riding on patrol on an icy November day in Russia twenty‑one years before.
He might, perhaps, have troubled himself a little over the question of how to arrest a member of the British royal family without causing an international uproar, but he didn't think of it. Every division of society has its own royalty, and while a man might fit into more than one division, his rank seldom does. Jacques Cheat‑Death's 'Dauphin' viewed all criminals as a group regardless of their breeding. He did not believe in coddling crooks.
He turned his thoughts from criminals. All was well with the Prefecture for the time being, and all was most well with the 12th arrondissement.
And how was Paul Malet?
He cocked his head, and his smile gentled. Paul Malet was very well indeed. He loved a lady who, he was now convinced, cared for him as well. He would be able to speak openly to her once he left the Rose d'Or, and he was certain that, if he offered marriage, she would accept him. The anticipation was both painful and sweet, and the flutter of his heart whenever he thought of speaking with Elise made him feel humble and just a little foolish.
He looked up at Pegasus again, then swung his gaze east. Taurus was well above the horizon now, and Orion was not far behind. Orion was his favorite constellation: the Hunter, the Guardian. Whatever else could be said against Paul Malet, he thought, one had to admit that he was a superb hunter. Tomorrow should prove a successful chase. He inclined his head to Orion and lost himself in delicious speculation concerning the next day's probable outcome.
LIX
ELISE FINDS INSPECTOR MALET PUZZLING
"Welcome back, M. Guardian Angel," said Elise some hours later when Malet returned to the Rose d'Or. She was sitting beside the fire, a screen pulled up to shield her face from the worst of the heat. She had been writing a letter earlier, and the result of that endeavor sat on the mantelpiece waiting to be posted to the Bois de Boulogne. Now she was engaged, prosaically, in darning stockings. She said, "You'll be happy to know that all went most well!"
"That is very good to hear, Mme. Noisette," said Malet with a bow. He turned away and took his two pistols from the pockets of his coat, unbuttoned and shed his topcoat, and laid it over a chair. He pulled off his gloves, folded them, and tucked them in the coat's pocket, then took his pistols over to the fireplace. "But what are you talking about?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I am not a filbert! And I am talking about Yvette and M. Plougastel!" said Elise, frowning at him over the sock she was darning. "They conversed very comfortably, and I thought it proper to leave them to chat alone while I occupied myself at the other end of the salon."
"Oh? Doing what?" Malet asked with a smile as he removed the percussion caps from his pistols and then placed the firearms on the mantelpiece while he reached for his pocket handkerchief. He paused as he caught sight of the letter and read the direction written on the cover.
Elise opened her eyes at him. She was still a little annoyed at being compared to a hazelnut. "I was sketching," she said.
"An artist, no less!" Malet said. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the smudges from the barrels of his guns as he returned the wide‑eyed stare with one of his own.
Elise gave it up. "Hardly," she said. "I learned, as every properly brought up girl does."
Malet set the guns down. "What did you draw?" he asked. "Or do I embarrass you by asking?"
"Just a quick sketch of Yvette. It's in that portfolio there with some other sketches of my friends. "Some are good, and some are not - "
"Your friends?" Malet asked.
"No! The sketches! There's one of you in there."
"My poor Elise!" Malet said on a laugh. "You must have been very bored! May I see them?"
Elise shrugged and blushed. "They aren't very good, and I just draw what comes to mind." She stopped as she saw the coat and the gloves laid across the chair and noticed the absence of a hat. Her eyes raised to Malet's hair, which was a little wind‑blown. "Did you go out in this wind without a hat?" she demanded.
"I certainly did!" Malet answered lightly. "I dislike hats: I always have! Let me see the drawings."
"You might catch cold," Elise said. She watched as Malet opened her portfolio and leafed through it. "If you hate hats, why do you usually wear them?" she added as an afterthought.
"Because going out without a hat would be like going out without trousers," Malet answered as he leafed through the drawing
s, addressing the second part of Elise's comments first. He paused and thought for a moment. "I beg pardon for my undress," he added with a wicked grin.
"At any rate, I have a very strong constitution," he said absently a moment later, without looking up. "I'd have died of consumption long ago without it - this is an excellent likeness!" He held up a sketch of Yvette holding a vase of roses and smiling shyly. "You did that tonight?" he said. "Impressive!"
He passed some smaller sketches of Alcide and Claude, and smiled at Alcide's neckcloth. "You got the folds right," he said as he touched the knot in the cravat.
"It was kind of you to show him how to tie it," Elise said.
Malet shrugged. "He's a good lad," he said. He set those portraits aside. The next sketch was of Charles de Saint‑Légère. It was dated from April of 1832. Elise had lingered over the lines of his mouth and eyes. He seemed to be smiling.
Malet looked up at her after a moment, a slight frown in his eyes.
Elise kept darning. "Do you think it a good likeness?" she asked. "I tried to capture his smile..."
"It seems good," he said calmly, and set the drawing down. He paused and then added, "He's written you faithfully. Do you miss him, then? Shall I see about recalling him?"
She turned the stocking she was darning and replied with a chuckle, "No, don't try to act the matchmaker for me, M'sieur! Let us consider, instead, who we can marry you off to!"
Malet shrugged and eyed a drawing of Yves. "At my age?" he asked. "It's a hopeless cause! Good God, look at this! I didn't know you were fond of drawing gorillas! What a lifelike grimace! I can almost hear him grunting! Why didn't you draw him beating his chest?"
"Stop it! Yves isn't a gorilla, and you're never too old to marry. There is Madame Villefranche, for example. A lovely woman, and very well bred - "
"A poor match for a bastard, then. Who'd want to marry me? Have you no dance‑hall girls or whores for me? We'd suit better."
The Orphan's Tale Page 35