The Montmartre Investigation

by Claude Izner

  Kenji had spotted the table indicated by Navarre, but he looked away immediately, disagreeably surprised to recognise Tasha amongst the drinkers. What was she up to? Was Victor with her? Was that why he’d left the bookshop in such a hurry?

  He turned back, concealing his anxiety.

  ‘I have no designs on Mademoiselle Allard; she’s a customer, that’s all.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Juju! It’s been a long time! La Môme Fromage and I were worried you’d kicked the bucket!’

  ‘I’ve been busy, my angel. Can I offer you cherries in brandy?’

  A voluptuous creature, who Kenji found rather unattractive, was blocking their way.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no, but the chahut is about to start. See you soon…’

  As she took the arm of a sinister-looking, skinny, middle-aged man, Kenji saw Tasha coming towards their table. He just had time to sit down hastily and unfold a handkerchief in front of his face.

  Tasha passed by without looking at Kenji, but she had seen him. She was astonished to find him here. Victor had told her how he was devoting himself heart and soul to his young conquest installed in Rue des Saints-Pères. She resolved to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘I’m delighted you’ve changed your mind, I’m dying of thirst. Waiter, a bottle of champagne!’ Navarre sat down next to Kenji. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl who just accosted us. That’s Nini Patte-en-l’air, used to be a shopkeeper, married, a mother. She gave it all up to dance the cancan! The same goes for the lamp post with her, Valentin le Désossé.’

  ‘Curious nickname…’

  ‘A journalist used it after he heard him singing ‘La Chanson de Valentin’ and it stuck. His real name is Étienne Renaudin; his brother exercises the noble profession of notary. Valentin was already well known at the balls of the Second Republic. When the urge to dance has you in its grip, you become a slave to it, just as others are slave to ether or morphine. But that’s not the worst thing. The most fearsome infection is invisible and is passed on in the privacy of the bedroom. I love the delicacy of the expression “sickness of the century”. When the evening starts to become boring I entertain myself by trying to guess how many of these puppets will have caught it by morning…’

  Kenji congratulated himself on always using protection and on having strongly advised Victor to use prophylactics, tiresome though they were. He was listening with half an ear as Navarre discussed the women dancers when the orchestra, conducted by Mabille, struck up the opening bars of ‘La Vie Parisienne’.

  Midnight approached and it was time for the cancan. The crowd pressed into the middle of the hall. The brass section heralded a whirlwind of dancers escorted by their partners who bounded on to the dance floor, making it tremble with a flurry of petticoats and black stockings. The four leading dancers – La Goulue, Nini Patte-en-l’air, Grille d’Égout and Rayon d’Or – launched into a succession of complicated steps – shouldering arms, guitar, military salute, crossing over, legs behind the head. Fifi Bas-Rhin lifted the creamy avalanche of her petticoats to reveal elegant calves in frenetic contortions. She threw herself up and landed in the grand split, spreading out her five yards of black satin skirts.

  ‘Do you see the pink line between the garter and the flounces of the drawers?’ shouted Navarre. ‘It’s that glimpse of naked flesh that keeps the indomitable men coming night after night!’

  At the height of all the excitement Kenji had wandered up to the front row. The chahut finished with an improvisation from each dancer, who searched the circle of spectators for the man whose top hat she would send flying through the air with a well-aimed kick. Before he realised what was about to happen, Kenji found himself uncovered by Eudoxie, who sent his opera hat clattering into the middle of the crowd, under the watchful eye of Navarre. Blushing, Kenji retrieved his headgear, more exhausted than if he himself had been dancing for hours. The cancan had only lasted eight minutes.

  Navarre led Kenji to a table, where Eudoxie wasted no time in joining them, still out of breath.

  ‘The grand split is a little too acrobatic; I’ll end up breaking my bones!’ she cried, flopping on to a chair.

  ‘Bravo, my dear! The precision of your leap is incomparable. Your friend here seems overwhelmed.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Mori, it’s so kind of you to come, but you mustn’t be so shy! What a beautiful purple cravat!’

  ‘The more the merrier…’ murmured Louis Dolbreuse, sitting down in his turn. ‘Good evening, comrades. Have you seen who’s here? Wales himself,’ he said, indicating the future Edward VII with a movement of the head. The prince was disporting himself nearby in joyous company.

  ‘Pah, I don’t give a toss about the royals when we have a visit from a celebrated bookseller from the left bank!’ exclaimed Eudoxie.

  She put her hand on Kenji’s.

  ‘Monsieur is a bookseller?’ asked Dolbreuse.

  ‘You met Monsieur Mori’s associate, Victor Legris, the other evening.’

  ‘Ah, the one with the painter girlfriend? Delightful enough to eat! Can you believe she has undertaken to paint my portrait? I think she may have taken a fancy to me.’

  ‘Victor and Tasha are engaged,’ Kenji announced drily, quite prepared to lie in a good cause.

  ‘That’s wonderful! I haven’t the least faith in feminine fidelity,’ retorted Dolbreuse, never taking his eyes from Eudoxie. ‘Yvette Guilbert explains it admirably, go and hear her sing “Le Fiacre”, it’s edifying: “Léon! You’re hurting me, take off your glasses”,’ he cooed.

  Navarre, chuckling, went one better: ‘I heard her at the Concert Parisien, sensational! She more than deserves her nickname – Sarah Bernhardt of the Gypsies! You have to have heard her reciting The Virgins, replacing all the censored words with a cough!’

  ‘Yes, it’s even better than the production of Le Père Goriot. Antoine has put it on at his Théâtre-Libre,’ said Dolbreuse. ‘That’s the kind of razor-sharp book you sell in your bookshop, I suppose, Monsieur Mori.’

  ‘Oh, we have books for all tastes, including collections of pictures for those who don’t like to read, Monsieur Dolbreuse.’

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Eudoxie. ‘That’s put you in your place, Louis! Monsieur Mori, you’re not leaving so soon?’

  She tried to hold Kenji back, as he seemed to be about to get up. ‘It would be a shame to leave; you’ll miss the best part. When Le Moulin closes its doors, the dancers offer their most daring displays to the regulars,’ said Navarre.

  ‘True, in comparison, the naturalist quadrille is a trifle,’ added Dolbreuse. ‘Come on, no hard feelings. Let’s shake hands Monsieur Bookseller! And give me your card, so that I know where I can find something to read in case Morpheus and love both desert me!’

  Kenji looked at each of them in turn carefully for an ironic expression, then, convinced that he really was wanted, especially by Eudoxie, he slowly sat down again.

  Chapter 10

  Buried under a heap of newspapers that rose and fell to the rhythm of snoring, a human form lay slumped on a wonky armchair. Toes sticking out of holey socks beat a steady rhythm, and one hand dangled to the ground, where a slipper and a candle watched over a mountain of tattered papers.

  Joseph had scoured his newspapers one by one, in vain, going directly to the page of miscellaneous news, convinced that if a case involving jewellery theft had caused a stir in Lyon between 1875 and 1886, it would have been mentioned in the Parisian dailies. It was after one in the morning when he had given up his fevered search. Exhausted, he had fallen asleep.

  His sleep was troubled by a dream, a nightmare about an enormous library in which he searched interminably for a precious manuscript.

  The church bell of the Église Saint-Germain-des-Près sounded three o’clock. Joseph started awake in his armchair, ready to go back to work, but then realised with anguish that he had stopped collecting periodicals in 1885, the year he started at the Elzévir books
hop.

  Unable to face switching off the petrol lamp, he remained immobile, transported back six years. He pictured his mother’s radiant face as she gave him the news.

  ‘My pet, you’re going to take up your Papa’s mantel; I’ve organised everything. We’ll live like kings! Just think, your salary added to mine…and the bookshop is only round the corner. If your father were alive, he would be so happy!’

  Joseph remembered the words of Marcel, his childhood friend.

  ‘Goodbye, dear freedom, farewell to adventure! But take heart, you’ll have a fixed income and your future will be assured. Books, that’s right up your street; you’re a real bookworm.’

  Determined to become a model assistant, he’d not had time to see Marcel more than two or three times since that day. When they did meet they would remember fondly how they used to wait at dawn by Rue du Croissant for the first editions of the papers to come out of the printworks. Between the ages of nine and fifteen, they had worn out the soles of their shoes racing madly across Paris to sell their local rags before the other hawkers. Their numerous friends among the typographers, the apprentices and the kiosk owners had enabled Joseph to accumulate nearly five thousand papers, now shelved along the walls of his study.

  A head topped with a nightcap appeared at the door.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what on earth’s going on!’ exclaimed a hoarse voice. ‘Look at him sleeping among his newspapers. Perhaps his glands are bothering him? My pet, are you asleep?’

  ‘I’m not asleep now that you’ve woken me up,’ complained Joseph.

  ‘Well, so much the better, because it’s time to drink your coffee. I’ll go and heat you a big bowl.’

  Joseph stood up, cursing, overcome with cold and fatigue. He brushed his trousers with the flat of his hand, and slipped on his jacket.

  ‘It’s too stupid! What if the jewel affair was written about during the months in which I neglected my newspaper collection! But I haven’t entirely wasted my time, because I swear that if that article exists, I’m going to root it out! Isn’t that right, Papa? You should never give up, and if you want something enough you can achieve it.’

  He looked up at the photograph pinned up above the old packing case that served as his desk. A jovial-looking bookseller in a smock and beret smiled out at him.

  ‘Coffee!’ yelled Euphrosine.

  ‘Com-ing!’

  He went to drink his coffee standing up by the red-hot stove in their tiny kitchen. His mother handed him some bread and dripping, looking disapprovingly at his crumpled clothes.

  ‘Next time you decide to turn your room upside down instead of kipping, warn me and I’ll spend the night at Madame Ballu’s. The racket was as bad as when the German cannons were bombarding Paris!’

  ‘I didn’t think I had disturbed you; you were snoring.’

  ‘I’ll thank you to show a little respect! He accuses his mother of snoring! Oh the cross I have to bear!’

  She left the apartment, muttering to herself, and loaded up her costermonger’s cart with fruit and vegetables. Joseph rinsed the bowls and made his bed, feeling all the while that he had forgotten something important. Every time his mother reproved him, he felt so guilty that he was impelled to busy himself as if his life depended on it.

  When the little apartment was as clean as a new pin, he set out with a heavy heart for Rue des Saints-Pères. His brain was fizzing with ridiculous or tragic news items and his mouth was stiff with the effort of not yawning.

  He opened the wooden shutters and seized a feather duster, whistling as he passed it over the shelves.

  ‘How do you do it? I’ve tried but I just can’t whistle,’ declared Iris from the door of the back room.

  ‘You startled me!’ cried Joseph, letting go of his feather duster.

  ‘I didn’t know how to amuse myself so I came down to have a look around. I’m just amazed that people can earn their living selling books. Why is anyone interested in such trifles? All these thousands of words aren’t going to change anything.’

  ‘Have you never felt the desire to escape, to lose yourself in a good mystery or an adventure story?’

  ‘I would rather learn to whistle.’

  ‘That’s not as hard as pronouncing English, all you have to do is make an ‘o’ with your mouth…’

  ‘Good morning, darling. Would you like breakfast now?’ asked Kenji in English, from halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Yes, coming!’ replied Iris, giving the disappointed Joseph a smile.

  ‘Charming, the Boss speaks in English because he doesn’t want me to understand; he’ll get a shock when Mademoiselle Iris has taught me the ins and outs of the language,’ he muttered to himself, continuing his dusting in a desultory fashion.

  ‘Good morning, young man. I hope you have received the three copies of Giselle promised me by Monsieur Mori?’

  Joseph jumped, and adopted an affable expression with which to greet the Comtesse de Salignac, who wore a brocaded wool coat and an air of hostility.

  ‘The battleaxe doesn’t believe in saying please, of course!’ he said under his breath, as he went to consult the order book.

  ‘What did you say, young man?’

  ‘Only that you have mistaken the date. The books are not due until tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s most provoking. Well, I shall make a sacrifice as is my wont, and make do with a present for my friend Adalberte de Brix. The poor thing is convalescing very slowly from her hemiplegia. The stay at Lamalou-les-Bains recommended by Dr Charcot only allowed her to regain part of her mobility. Half of her face is still paralysed.’

  ‘She must talk like a duck.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, you little lout! Spare me your comments and find me The Vicar, The Son-in-law and Precocious, three novels by George Bois, published by Dentu. I also want A False Start by Max de Simiers, a story in which Mathilde de Flavignol assures me the first surprises of the heart are painted with spring-like lightness,’ she concluded to Kenji, who was advancing towards her.

  Kenji calmly sent Joseph to the stockroom.

  ‘And where does he want me to dig out this spring-like book, from amongst the gardening manuals?’

  After a longish pause, which he had deliberately extended, Joseph reappeared with The Vicar and A False Start. The Comtesse had left the shop.

  ‘That was worth the effort,’ he told Kenji. ‘Isn’t Monsieur Victor coming?’

  ‘He’s at Rue Drouot. There are some deliveries to make: the two books you’re clutching for Madame de Salignac, this one for Rue du Louvre, and that other one, the Montaigne, for Monsieur Boni de Pont-Joubert, Rue Michel-Ange. Monsieur Legris wasn’t able to do it himself.’

  ‘You amaze me…’

  ‘Don’t start complaining. You can take a cab – does that make it more acceptable? Make up the parcels and try not to waste yards and yards of string.’

  ‘It’s slave labour; you’re sending me to the four corners of Paris,’ protested Jojo.

  ‘I only count three deliveries,’ retorted Kenji. ‘Do you want me to add a fourth?’

  As soon as he had gone through the main gates bearing the inscription: Hospice for Elderly Women, Victor felt as though he were a prisoner in an enclosed town. The Salpêtrière resembled a monastery that jealously guarded the secrets of its past. Over an adjoining gated entrance the tricolore fluttered. Victor entered Cour Saint-Louis, where the wind had denuded the puny trees of their leaves. Opening off this courtyard was a refectory that was like a veritable market. There were grocers, a café, a tobacconist and fruit stalls in a large area where elderly women milled about; some, formerly refectory staff, were smoking pipes. There was also a laundry, always very busy because on visiting day the old ladies liked to have fresh white bonnets and ironed, frilled bodices. The immense hospice also included a section for the mentally ill.

  Victor crossed a garden bare of flowers at this time of year and followed an alley of flagstones that led to a vast, imposing religious edif
ice crowned by a dome. On both sides of the Chapelle Saint-Louis rose the façades of buildings, to the left the Mazarin Wing, to the right the Lassay Wing. Victor hesitated. Last year he had come to the Salpêtrière to view Albert Londe’s pictures. At the request of Professor Charcot, Londe had produced snapshots of the patients, demonstrating the various aspects of hysteria. But where was his office? Victor was hoping that the author of Photography in the Arts, Science and Industry would tell him what or who bore the name ‘Aubertot’. He met a house doctor in a white coat, an overcoat thrown over his shoulders, who gave him a complicated explanation of where he could find Londe.

  Stretching out before him was a vista dotted with bare trees and hemmed in by grey walls and tiled roofs. He trampled across patchy grass that spilled on to a path where hunched women tapped along, the noise of their canes breaking the silence. A young member of staff was guiding this flock, who seemed to mark the frontier between this world and the world beyond.

  At the entrance to the Cour Saint-Claire, he noticed on his left the sinister prison where, in September 1792, a group of angry revolutionaries had raped and murdered thirty-seven unfortunate women detained under the common law, accused of royalism. The courtyard in which he now found himself had been renamed the Cour des Massacres in their honour. This gave on to a second courtyard with a large well in the centre.

  Elderly residents sat immobile and silent on benches, warming themselves in the pale sunshine. What were they thinking about, these women whose lives had been nothing but hard graft? Were they back in the distant days of their childhood? Victor stopped to observe them. He felt such a wave of empathy that he entered a reverie. He saw himself old, gout-ridden, abandoned in an asylum and anguished by the realisation that life is short, that whatever one does time passes ineluctably by, and had already passed for him. Oppressed by the thought that everything is transitory, he continued on his way. Only a hundred and twenty years earlier, delinquents, beggars, prostitutes, madwomen and vagabonds had all been callously crowded together in the Salpêtrière. These cloistered women had been convicted of causing public disorder; they mouldered in cells, frequently branded with a hot iron. If there was no room for new arrivals, the girls were deported to Martinique, Guadeloupe or Louisiana.