“You didn’t fail me, and it was no agony.”
Roch bit his closed fist. “I too have something to tell you, Father. I was here, at the Temple, last night. To take Chevalier to a Military Commission. I attended his execution.”
“Yes, I’d heard he’d been taken to a Military Commission. Only I didn’t know it was by you.”
“And on the same day, the clerk here tells you that the same is going to happen to you. And then someone orders otherwise. Then today they allow me to see you. All in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Wait a moment, Roch. When you say they, who’s that?”
“If only I knew, Father. It was the Prefect who told me to attend Chevalier’s execution. When I think of it now, I believe he was taunting me. He must have known that you were scheduled to appear before the Military Commission at the same time as Chevalier. The bastard wanted me to witness your execution.” Roch paused. He had never understood the true intensity of the Prefect’s ill will. “But then Fouché must have given orders to save you. And it was Fouché too who allowed me to visit you today.”
Old Miquel frowned. “So I’d owe Fouché my life? It doesn’t sound right. Why’d he do that for me, or for you?”
“It’s not all, Father. There is no point in hiding it since you have guessed anyway. He told me that he would have you deported if I did not arrest those two Chouans by the end of January.”
Old Miquel shook his head pensively. “Aye, that’s more like Fouché. Now I think I understand what he was doing. He ordered my execution, knowing that the Prefect’d tell you to attend, and then he gave orders to the contrary at the last minute. Just to rattle you. If I’d been shot last night, he’d have lost all power over you. With this threat of shipping me to the Colonies, he can make you do his bidding. I told you, Roch, beware of that bastard.”
Old Miquel seemed lost in his thoughts for a while. Then he shook himself and grasped Roch’s arm. “I want you to remember something. For my sake. Whatever happens to me, I don’t want you blaming yourself for it. It’s my own damn fault if I talked so freely about Bonaparte and Fouché. You warned me to be careful, remember, and I wouldn’t listen to you. I don’t regret it on my own account, because I had a good life, and I am old enough to go. But I should’ve thought more of you. You’re my only child now, and I couldn’t have wished for a better son. D’you hear me, Roch? I want you to promise you’ll remember that. Say it.”
Roch concentrated on fighting the sobs that were choking him. He swallowed hard before he could utter the words. “I promise, Father. I will always remember it.”
“Good. I believe you, and I can rest easy now. I think it’s time for us to say good-bye.”
Roch knelt on the floor and removed his hat. “Father, please give me your blessing.”
Old Miquel rose and extended both of his hands over his son’s bowed head. He said the ritual words:
May God bless you,
May He give you health
And keep your soul in happiness.
In the name of the Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen.
Old Miquel raised his son to embrace him. Then he walked to the door and knocked to call the guard. He left the little room without looking back.
30
Roch’s hate for Dubois had taken a new turn, personal, vivid. He felt the same kind of dislike, to a lesser degree, for the rest of his colleagues. They seemed to understand it and avoided his eye whenever they met him in the corridors of the Prefecture. He limited his direct contacts to his Inspectors, who kept searching all of Paris for Saint-Régent and Carbon, still without success.
Yet when he crossed the path of Piis, the Secretary General, on the morning of the 15th of January, he was surprised to see a smile parting the man’s thick lips.
“Ah, Miquel,” exclaimed Piis. “Am I glad to see you! I have a little something here on which I would like to have your opinion.”
Piis, without waiting for a response, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. Roch cringed. The fact that Piis again spoke to him was probably a good omen, but he had no desire to listen once more to the readings of his colleague’s poetry.
Of course, Roch had studied the classics, Virgil, Ovid and Horace, as well as French poetry, at Monsieur Veau’s Academy for Boys. It was not a fond memory. He could barely read and write when he had arrived at the Academy, and he had been three years older than any other pupil in his class. During the first six months, he had been flogged without fail every Saturday for his ignorance and unruliness until the Latin teacher took pity on him and tutored him, free of charge, at night. Thanks to that kind soul, Roch caught up with the boys of his age, and was on his way to graduate with honors if the Academy had not abruptly closed due to the emigration of its proprietor. Now poetic endeavors of any kind held little interest for him, and he was not in any mood to humor his colleague.
“Thank you, Piis,” he said, “but perhaps you should read it to Bertrand. He used to own a bookshop.”
“Bertrand? That mindless brute? All you have to do is look at that snout of his to tell that he doesn’t understand the first thing about poetry. No, I want your opinion. A good-looking young fellow like you must be in love.”
Roch was not sorry to disappoint his colleague and remained silent.
“So?” asked Piis with some impatience. “Are you?”
“A good-looking fellow? You flatter me, Piis. I hardly know what to say.”
Piis rolled his eyes and let out a groan. “No, Miquel, you know perfectly well what I mean. Are you in love?”
“I generally reserve the avowal of my feelings for the lady who inspires them.”
“Ah! We have a lady here! And even if you are not in love, it may be close enough.” Piis lowered his voice. “You see, Miquel, in my case, there’s a rather delicate situation. I have declared my flame to my lady, but she won’t have anything to do with me. She says she will never like me because I work at the Prefecture.”
“Perhaps she worries that you might take advantage of your functions to read her police file.” Roch arched his eyebrow. “Did you?”
Piis puffed with indignation. “Of course not! No man of honor would read his beloved’s police file. But this little sonnet should mollify her. Now listen.”
Piis put one of his hands upon his chest, holding the sheet at arm’s length with the other.
“Oh, Photis, cruel Photis, thy charming name—” he began.
“Photis?” scoffed Roch. “Like that little minx of a maid in The Golden Ass? Where did your paramour get a name like that?”
Piis knit his brows. “The Golden Ass? Now that you mention it, yes, there might be a character by that name in it.”
“And do you remember what that Photis does in The Golden Ass?”
“I must have forgotten,” said Piis.
“Well, I remember that novel fairly well because it was the only time I found reading Latin enjoyable. The book had been smuggled into Veau’s Academy by one of my schoolmates, who had stolen it from his father’s library. So, for your information, Photis is a luscious little hussy who shows the narrator a delightful time in bed, then turns him into a jackass. Hence the title. Beware, Piis. The same could happen to you. Only without the delightful time in bed.”
Piis bit his lip. “Well, you see, Miquel, Photis is not my beloved’s real name. I made it up for this sonnet, and it worked for the rhyme. Also, her real name is too plain for poetry. In fact, it is too plain for her. I wish you could see her, Miquel. Such eyes! Such a complexion! And what a figure! Light and gracious and yet voluptuous . . .” Piis’s eyes wandered away for a minute. “And then, I don’t want to compromise her. She is married, you know. Imagine if this poem became an instant success. I wouldn’t want her real name on everyone’s lips.”
Roch refrained from remarking that perhaps his colleague overestimated that risk. Some of Piis’s comedies had made it on occasion to vaudeville stages, where they had garnered but lukewarm re
views, and his Poésies Fugitives, published one year ago, had already sunk into obscurity.
Who indeed cared a jot about Piis’s poetry? Roch looked into his colleague’s eyes and asked, “Say, Piis, how is it that you are again talking to me?”
Piis blushed. “Well, you see, everyone said that Fouché would be dismissed, and the Prefect was to be the next Minister, so—”
“Yes, I understand perfectly well why you were not talking me anymore. What puzzles me is why you have changed your mind.”
“Oh, that! I guess you have not heard the news then. Fouché had Bourmont arrested last night.”
“Bourmont? The ci-devant Count de Bourmont, the former Chouan general?”
“The one. But wait, that’s not all. The arrest took place at the bottom of the grand staircase of the Tuileries, just as Bourmont was leaving the First Consul’s private apartment.” Piis leaned towards Roch and shielded his mouth with his hand. “They say the First Consul and Madame Bonaparte have become friends with Bourmont and his wife, and that he was furious to have one of his guests arrested in that manner, practically on his doorstep. So Fouché was summoned to the Tuileries right away. But this morning, he is still Minister, and Bourmont is still in jail, in spite of everything.”
Roch stared out the window. This was the best news he had received since the attack. Fouché must have had proof positive of the involvement of the Chouans to provoke the First Consul in this manner. The Minister was now enjoying the sweet taste of revenge. The tide must be turning at last. None too soon, because Roch had begun to despair of finding the Rue Nicaise assassins within the remaining two weeks of the allotted time.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” continued Piis, “we shall go back to my little piece. Make sure you don’t interrupt this time. It breaks the rhythm of the verse, and you won’t be able to appreciate the flow of it.” Piis’s hand returned to his chest. He cleared his voice. “Oh, Photis, cruel Photis—”
“Now, Piis, have you considered the fact that maybe your Photis is in no way adverse to the police in general? I have never found it to be a hindrance. Perhaps she only says that because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. What if she simply doesn’t like you? Or maybe she can’t abide your name?”
Piis sighed. “Really, Miquel, you have no idea how many tasteless jokes circulate about it. Do you think my beloved heard any of them? I can’t imagine how anything so base could ever reach her ears, but perhaps you are right. Maybe if I adopted a nom de plume . . .”
Roch slapped his colleague on the back. “And what of the literary fame you have already achieved under your real name? I am afraid it’s too late. No, Piis, don’t look any further: your beloved simply doesn’t like the fact that you work at the Prefecture. She says so herself, does she not? Perhaps you should glance at her police file after all. There must be something interesting there.”
Roch proceeded to his office without waiting for Piis’s answer.
31
Roch called all of his Inspectors to his office to discuss their progress and devise new ways of locating Saint-Régent and Short Francis. The date set by Fouché for Old Miquel’s deportation was but twelve days away now. Roch was more convinced than ever that the Mayenne Inn was at the heart of the Rue Nicaise conspiracy and silently cursed the Prefect for preventing him from posting his men there. Little as he liked it, he had no choice but to rely solely on a little beggar to watch the place.
The Rue Nicaise investigation did not absolve Roch of his usual duties. It was the day of the week when he was to visit the Palais-Egalité in his professional capacity. Blanche’s mother was not the only one to have opened a gaming salon there. The Palais-Egalité had been called the Palais-Royal before the Revolution, when it belonged to the Duke d’Orléans, cousin to the King. The Duke had conceived the idea, novel for a prince of the royal blood, to rent part of his palace to shopkeepers to supplement his already enormous income. Then, during the Revolution, the Duke had been guillotined for conspiring to make himself King in place of his cousin.
Yet the shops, unlike him, survived. The rents were twice as high as anywhere else in town, and often drove the tenants into bankruptcy, but much of the business of Paris was still transacted there. A multitude of shops around the pillared galleries sold shiny fabrics, dresses, flowers, jewels, ribbons, toothpicks, jars of rouge, clocks, trinkets, perfumes, embroidered garters and every other imaginable sort of merchandise.
The sound of raised voices burst from the cafés where the Stock Exchange brokers and their customers gathered. Music came from the Frères Provençaux restaurant, while the fragrance of roasting meat rose from the kitchens in the basement. Inside the vast dining parlor, huge mirrors reflected pyramids of pâtés, pastries, jellies, and even peaches and cherries, grown in hothouses during these winter months.
Military men in bright uniforms ambled in the galleries. Austria had been defeated at the battle of Marengo by Bonaparte himself last June, and again at Hohenlinden by General Moreau. The Holy Roman Emperor, Francis II, the tyrant of Austria, as Old Miquel called him, had been forced to beg for an armistice. Negotiations for a peace treaty had already commenced. The considerable territorial gains of the French Republic in Germany, Italy and the Netherlands would no doubt be confirmed. England would have to carry alone the burden of prosecuting the war against France.
Roch passed a bookshop that displayed, in the midst of an assortment of libertine prints, Justine or the Misfortunes of Virtue, the notorious novel by the ci-devant Marquis de Sade, and its counterpart, The Anti-Justine, by Restif de la Bretonne. Roch knew Restif, who was a clerk at the Ministry of Police and a prolific author of novels and pamphlets, including The Pornographer. The man claimed that his Anti-Justine provided the same kind of entertainment as Sade’s works, without indulging in their excessive cruelty. He had boasted to Roch, while presenting him with a free copy, that only one woman was cut into pieces and devoured in the Anti-Justine. Roch had never finished the novel. He had found the sexual exploits of the characters mildly entertaining at first, though a bit repetitive, but even a single dismembered woman was one too many for his taste.
Many houses of convenience were also located in the Palais-Egalité, but this was no Pull-Cock Alley. The presence of prostitutes was hardly noticeable during the day, when they remained in the bawdy houses. Roch made his rounds of those, and finally climbed the stairs that led to Citizen Renard’s establishment. Two ladies, yawning, greeted him without rising from the plump sofas where they rested. Both were young and pretty, and their rouge was tastefully applied. They wore no undergarments, and their dresses were so sheer that every detail of their bodies was revealed, from the pink-brownish rosettes of their breasts, down to their nether hair and the embroidered garters that tied their flesh-colored stockings. Roch took a moment to enjoy the sights before turning his attention back to the business at hand. Citizen Renard, a buxom woman of mature years, handed him her weekly purse.
“There, Citizen Chief Inspector,” she simpered. “Please be kind enough to send my respects to our dear Minister, as always. And did you know that we have a fresh piece? Arrived last week from the countryside. Would you like to meet her? I will go awaken her if you wish. Our patrons simply rave about her.” She pointed to the two reclining ladies, who smiled sleepily at Roch. “Unless you prefer Rose, or Fanny. Or both. Courtesy of the house, of course.”
Roch put the purse into his already heavy briefcase and took his leave, politely declining the bawd’s offers. Once he went back to the galleries downstairs, he passed the window of a jewelry store and stopped for a moment. He looked at delicate filigree earrings, at gold ornaments shaped like roses, cupids or birds. All lovely things, and he would have been happy to present Blanche with any of them. He was ready to push the door to the shop open, but reconsidered. He did not want to give her anything tainted by an association with the Palais-Egalité . In any event, the shop must specialize in trinkets destined to the whores upstairs. It was the last place in Par
is to purchase a nuptial ring, even for a lady one could not marry.
He now had to call on Madame de Cléry, which he found still more disagreeable than all of his other visits to the Palais-Egalité put together. Blanche must have told her mother of her liaison with Roch, because ever since the older woman had introduced them, her flirtatious attempts had given way to the coldest of manners. Roch, without meeting her eye, was content to seize the purse she handed him.
He was done at last and looked up at the white, opaque sky, laden with a promise of snow. So he hailed a hackney as soon as he left the Palais-Egalité and drove to the Ministry. He had no wish to see Fouché, but Marain, the private secretary, as though expecting a request for an interview, pointedly informed him that the Minister was not there. Roch walked back to the Isle of the Cité. Now the first snow-flakes, plump and light, were dancing in front of his eyes. Roch hated snow and pressed ahead.
Shortly before reaching the Prefecture, on the Goldsmiths Embankment, he stopped in front of a shop window displaying a variety of silver platters, tea sets and ice buckets. This place might sell wedding rings. A bell rang cheerily when he pushed the door open. The shopkeeper, a comely young woman in a black silk dress, smiled graciously at him from behind the counter. He told her of his errand.
“Allow me to offer my congratulations, Citizen,” she said, her eyes lowered, as she pulled a tray full of nuptial rings.
Roch tried to examine the rings, but they all seemed the same. He pointed to one at random.
“A wise choice,” said the young woman. “Any other jewelry for the fortunate young lady? We have these bracelets, in three tones of gold. Quite the fashion these days, and very appropriate as a wedding gift.” She pointed at a case behind the counter. “And a silver porringer for the little ones to come, perhaps? You know that it is considered good luck to purchase it before the marriage.”
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