Every night at dusk, Roch and his father would stop by the hatter’s shop to sell the skins, which would be turned into felt, except for the white ones. Those, more valuable, were used as cheap imitations of ermine fur. Then man and child repaired to the stables that were their home and stripped to their waists in the courtyard. They would wash their faces and chests in the trough from which the horses drank in an attempt to rid themselves of the tenacious stench before going to sleep.
At last, after long years of that drudgery, Old Miquel had saved, sol by sol, enough money to purchase the Mighty Barrel with the help of a loan from Vidalenc. Roch was very happy to have left those days behind. Yet tonight he looked again like a gagne-denier, a pennyearner, as he had done in the days of his childhood.
He left through the wooden exterior staircase. It led to an unpaved alley by the side of the tavern. There a group of men had now gathered, groping at one another for balance, bellowing lewd songs.
Roch ignored the acrid whiffs of vomit coming from the direction of the drunkards and walked away in the damp chill of the night. Certainly, as a policeman, he had been ordered to leave the Mayenne Inn alone, but nothing prevented him, as a private citizen, from paying the place a visit. Roch turned onto Rue du Four-Honoré and soon saw the Inn’s sign, representing a basket of pears. That fruit was a traditional crop of the département of Mayenne.
He looked around and saw a tiny figure crouching in the shadows of a carriage door. He approached softly. Pépin yelped in terror and took to his feet.
In a minute Roch caught him by the back his jacket and clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth. “Quiet, imbecile,” he hissed. “It’s me.”
Pépin nodded. He was breathing fast when Roch relaxed his grip. “Sorry, Sir, I’d never’ve thought it’d be you, dressed like this. I must’ve shit in my eyes.”
“I hope not, if you are to keep them on the Mayenne Inn. What’s happening there?”
“Nothin’, Citizen Chief Inspector. There’s nobody goin’ in or out today, save an ol’ manservant goin’ to the bakery jus’ before dark. Mighty funny for an inn.”
“You didn’t see either of the men I told you about?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well, stay here and keep watching the place.”
Roch proceeded to the inn. When he pushed the door open, he saw half a dozen men playing billiards in a common room, but the game, along with all conversations, ceased abruptly upon his entrance. A large, tall fellow put down his cue and walked deliberately to him. The man looked at Roch from head to toe without returning his greeting.
“You the clerk?” asked Roch, exaggerating his Roman accent, which was usually so slight as to be barely discernable. Now his French was but a string of guttural consonants. The men around the billiards table burst out laughing. Roch had heard those puffs of scorn often enough when he had canvassed the streets of Paris with his father, and he knew how to respond: say nothing, do nothing.
The large man grinned. “Why would a filthy Auvergnat want to know that?”
Roch kept his right hand inside his pocket and fingered his father’s knife. “If you were the clerk, you’d take me to Short Francis.”
Suddenly all laughter ceased.
“And what sort of business would you have with Short Francis?” asked the big man.
“I’ve a letter for him.”
“Give me the letter, and I’ll make sure it gets to him.”
“No. The man said to give the letter to Short Francis. Not to some big fat oaf who’s too stupid to know if he’s the clerk.”
The large fellow squinted at Roch. “There’s no clerk here. I own this inn. Now give me the letter, will you?”
So this was Gillard, the Prefect’s friend. “No. The man said if Francis ain’t around, then give it to Saint-Régent. You know, the one they call Pierrot. So if you’ll take me to Pierrot, I’ll give it to him.”
Gillard clearly hesitated, his mouth open, his distrustful little eyes trying to read Roch’s purpose. The billiards players had left the table and were now gathered around him. One of them, auburn-haired and handsome, in an embroidered waistcoat and an elegant coat of English cut, seized the owner by the elbow and whispered to his ear.
“Aye, that’s right, My Lord,” said Gillard, nodding. He looked at Roch. “Short Francis and Pierrot packed their things. They left two weeks ago. That’s the last I saw of them.”
“Then tell me where I can find them.”
“You don’t understand, rascal, do you? They left town.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll go find’m. I’ll earn a gold louis if I give’m the letter.”
“Too bad. I don’t know where they went.”
“I find you very insolent in your persistence, Auvergnat,” intervened the elegant fellow, who took a step in Roch’s direction. “Maybe my friends and I could teach you proper manners.”
Roch snapped his knife open inside his pocket. Gillard started at the small popping noise and held out his arm to stop the nobleman.
“Don’t come close to this wretch, My Lord,” he said. “The likes of him can be nasty.”
Gillard was right. As a child, Roch had learned to fight, even when he was outnumbered. As Old Miquel had explained to his son, it was wrong to kill, but one had to be respected on the streets. Roch could have stabbed the fop without the knife ever leaving his pocket. Even a mere cut, if painful enough, sufficed. Then, when the adversary was doubled over, his breath stopped, Roch’s knee would rise to hit the man’s groin with full force. That would make anyone crumple like an empty sack. Then it was just a matter of a few kicks of the hobnailed shoes in the face and belly. One had to be careful not to be carried away by one’s bellicose mood, for sometimes, like now, there were more foes to attend to after the first one was down.
The elegant fellow was fortunate. Roch was not there to look for a fight with a ci-devant aristocrat. The innkeeper, breathing hard, kept his eyes fixed on Roch.
“I don’t want any trouble here,” he said. “Go away.”
Roch cleared his throat and treated himself to the pleasure of spitting on the fop’s shiny boots. Then he walked slowly backwards, mindful not to turn around until he was clear of the Mayenne Inn. He threw Pépin a coin as he passed the boy.
Roch was happy. A short but fruitful visit that had been. It was clear that Gillard, that old acquaintance of the Prefect’s, knew Saint-Régent and Short Francis, and also of their whereabouts. Perhaps the man would be worried enough to send them word that a sinister character was enquiring after them. And if shaken, the rats might leave their nest.
24
It was eleven, the mandatory closing time, when Roch returned to the Mighty Barrel. Still eschewing the street entrance, he climbed the back stairs and stepped into his father’s bedroom. As he undressed, he heard, coming from the common room downstairs, the headwaiter’s voice raised as the man pushed the last drunkards out onto the street. Soon the place would be empty. Roch slowly undressed. He felt the folding knife in his father’s jacket and, after a moment of reflection, slipped it into his own coat pocket. The skin of his face felt dusty and dry from the soot he had rubbed on it.
Shivering in his shirt and underclothes, he washed his face in the chilly water that remained in the basin on the dressing table. He glanced at the bed and closed his eyes. For a moment he pictured Blanche lying naked there. The image was intensely, painfully real.
It would have been so comforting to go home to his bed at night and find Blanche there, to awaken her gently, to enjoy her and then to fall asleep by her side, his arm around her waist. Or maybe not even awaken her. Just feel the warmth of her body and nuzzle her neck. How could that ever happen with Blanche, who was another man’s wife? He remembered the ring she wanted and felt again the bite of regret, of jealousy too.
Downstairs the front door of the tavern closed with a clang. Alexandrine would be alone in the common room now. What if she had heard his footsteps upstairs? It was better to go and talk to
her for a little while. It would not have to be long: in a moment one of her father’s menservants would come and take her home.
Roch slipped on his clothes and climbed down the stairs that led to the common room. Alexandrine was seated at one of the tables, writing in Old Miquel’s ledger. A single candle threw a circle of yellow light on her pensive profile, the pages of the vast book and an inkwell. Alexandrine raised her eyes and put down her quill. She did not seem surprised or frightened, as though she had recognized his step in the dark. A smile lit her face, though she looked sad and tired. The memory of their last conversation came back to him in full force. He was embarrassed, but she acted in a natural, unaffected manner.
“I am so glad to see you, Roch,” she said in the Roman language. “See, I just finished today’s accounts.”
“And I am glad to have this opportunity to thank you.” He hesitated. “I came here tonight to fetch some things of Father’s upstairs.” He looked around. Something familiar was missing.
“Where is Crow?” he asked at last.
Alexandrine shook her head sadly. “I sent you a note at the Prefecture, but you must have left before it arrived. Poor Crow died this afternoon. He had refused to take any food over the past few days. Oh, he was as sweet as ever, but he wouldn’t even drink. He just lied here quietly at my feet. It broke my heart when he would raise his head and prick his ears every time the door opened, and then whine when he realized it wasn’t your father.”
Roch looked down. He remembered Crow as a puppy, a ball of black fur in Old Miquel’s pocket, and as a very old dog, when the shaggy, slobbery hair around his muzzle had turned all white, like a wise man’s beard.
“I am sorry, Roch,” continued Alexandrine. “I know how your father will miss Crow when he returns.” She paused. “Speaking of his return, what do you think of my offer to manage the Barrel in the meantime?”
Roch shook his memories away. “What do I think? You are right, of course, this place should be kept open and in good order. I am sure it is what Father wishes. Thank you so much for offering to do this.”
He wanted to say more, but words did not come easily. “Alexandrine?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for the other day. I was horribly rude when you told me of Father’s arrest.”
She was staring at the floor. “I understand how you must have felt. I couldn’t believe it myself when I heard it. I still have trouble believing it.”
“You are a true friend, Alexandrine.”
Her face was still lowered, but he would have sworn that she was blushing to the roots of her hair. He looked away and noticed a basket full of blue and white hyacinths on the table. The fragrance of the blossoms, both sweet and earthy, was powerful enough to overcome the tavern’s reek of wine and tobacco. He felt transported back to the mossy woods of his childhood in the mountains of Auvergne, far from the Mighty Barrel and Paris.
A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.
“Oh, this must be Fraysse,” said Alexandrine. “It is time for me to go home.”
Roch frowned. Then a sudden inspiration struck him. “Do you think your father would mind if I walked you home? And, more importantly, would you mind?”
Alexandrine smiled. “Of course not.”
Roch went to open the door to Fraysse, a hulking fellow with grizzled hair. The man had been in Vidalenc’s service as far as Roch could remember. In spite of his age, he retained a fearsome figure.
“Good night to you, Fraysse,” said Alexandrine. “Citizen Miquel here has kindly offered to walk me home.”
Fraysse cast a look of deep suspicion at Roch. “All right then, I’ll jus’ walk one hundred yards behind you youn’ people.”
Outside a chilly wind was blowing shreds of clouds very fast in front of the half-moon. Roch offered Alexandrine his arm. Though Fraysse walked too far behind to hear them, his presence seemed to stifle any attempts at conversation. Alexandrine was content to huddle against Roch in silence as they walked. Yet there was no awkwardness in her silence. She seemed to be simply enjoying the quiet of the night.
“You must be very tired after a day and evening spent in the noise and smoke of the Barrel,” said Roch.
“Oh, I am fine. But I am not used to the odor of tobacco. This is why I brought the hyacinths.”
“Did you grow them yourself ? It is quite a bit of trouble to get them to bloom in this season, isn’t it?”
“No, no trouble at all. I love flowers, and it’s such a joy to see them bloom in the dead of winter.” He could hear some amusement in Alexandrine’s voice. “I didn’t know you were interested in hyacinths.”
Roch tried to imagine her, keeping her father’s house. He and Old Miquel had often been invited to dinner there. It had been built over a century earlier, at the eastern point of the Isle of the Fraternity. Then, during the Revolution, its noble owner had emigrated, it had been sold at auction and Vidalenc had purchased it at a bargain price. It remained a very fine, old-fashioned mansion.
“I love to grow roses too,” continued Alexandrine, “but all I have is a tiny enclosed garden. There’s too little sunlight for them. They grow all mildewy and leggy. So I am content with the hyacinths.”
Roch realized that he had never given any thought to Alexandrine’s everyday occupations at home, her likes and dislikes. “Doesn’t your bedroom have a small balcony?”
He immediately regretted his words. This was hardly a suitable topic with a proper young lady, especially one he was still expected to marry.
But Alexandrine did not sound flustered. “Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully, “I have a bit of room for potted flowers there in spring and summer.” Her pace slowed down, and her eyes seemed to look away in the distance. “Do you know, Roch, what I would really like? I know it sounds selfish and childish, especially now, in the middle of all this sorrow . . . What I would like is a garden of my own. A country house by the river, maybe a league or so from Paris. A garden full of roses. Pink ones, white ones, all fragrant. It would be so beautiful in the fair season.”
“One could easily find a house like this, around Charenton maybe. I am sure your father would move there if you asked him.”
“I know, Roch. This is why I would never dream of telling him. He would do it to please me, of course. But he wouldn’t like it at all there. He likes to keep an eye on his warehouses on the Saint-Bernard Embankment from home. We used to live right there, do you remember? In those little lodgings next to the place, before Father bought the mansion on the Isle of Saint-Louis. Mama was still alive then.”
Alexandrine’s words had brought an image to Roch’s mind. He imagined her standing in a garden by the river. It was spring, and the air was still a bit chilly, but the sun was shining. She was standing under an arch over which she had trained those roses of hers, and her white muslin dress billowed in the wind that was playing with loose strands of her honey-colored hair.
They were walking under a streetlight now. He turned to her and looked at her hair more closely than ever before. He noticed pale blond streaks around her temples, and in the locks that escaped from under her bonnet, on her nape. Her hair was both flaxen and reddish, almost straight in places and tightly curled in others, a mix of hues and textures.
“I hope I don’t sound ungrateful,” continued Alexandrine. “I am very fond of Father’s house on the Isle. I even heard someone say it is, or used to be, one of the most beautiful mansions in all of Paris. You were asking about the balcony off my bedroom. Well, when I stand there, looking down at the river, I feel like I’m on the deck of a mighty ship.”
They had reached the river now. The masses of the islands, dark in the moonlight, obscured the view of the other bank. “When I was younger,” continued Alexandrine, “I liked to stand on that balcony and imagine that the house escaped its moorings, that it floated downstream like a ship towards the ocean . . . Oh, Roch, do you know I have never seen the ocean?”
“Neither have I,” sighed Roch. “But
I remember the day when Father took me to the top of the towers of Notre-Dame. It was my very first Sunday in Paris.”
“I too remember that day. You and your father came to dinner that night. That was the first time I saw you, and I was very curious about you.”
“This can’t be. I was only eight. You were too little then.”
“I must have been four, but I do remember it as if it were yesterday.” She laughed lightly. “You didn’t speak much, especially to me.”
“I was overwhelmed by what I had seen that day. The whole city of Paris. I had just arrived from Auvergne with Father a few days earlier, and he took me to the towers of Notre-Dame to introduce me to Paris. We climbed more steps than I had ever climbed at a time. I remember an array of huge bronze bells, or so they seemed to me. I remember the bourdon was taller than Father. Then I looked around, and the sight took my breath away.”
Alexandrine was silent. Roch let the memory submerge him. Old Miquel and he, the child fresh from his mountains, were at the high point of the Cité, the largest of the islands of Paris. L’Ile Saint-Louis, now called the Isle of the Fraternity, where Alexandrine lived now, trailed behind, followed by the last and smallest of all, L’Ile Merdeuse, the “Shitty Isle,” undignified, uninhabited, huddled against the Right Bank.
On the banks, between the bridges, boatmen were busy unloading parcels and barrels. Roch’s eye wandered across the mazes of obscure, winding streets, the busy squares, the mansions of the rich, the spires of a hundred churches. And all around, the wide boulevards lined with trees formed an oval belt. Further away still, the wings of windmills and the straight lines of vineyards crossed the heights of Montmartre.
“Can you imagine, Alexandrine, that was seventeen years ago . . .”
Catherine Delors Page 12