Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  The boy winced. “Could’ve been a week ago, maybe.”

  Roch threw Pépin against the wall of the Prefecture and pinned him there by the shoulder. “A week ago? Little bastard! Do you know what a week’s delay means to me?”

  The boy let out a yelp. “Please, Sir, it’s not my fault. They said your father’d been arrested, an’ I couldn’t keep on dealin’ with you.”

  Roch pushed harder on Pépin’s shoulder. “They? Who said that?”

  “Chief Bertrand, Sir, the big ugly one. I came here to tell you right away, jus’ after I took the letter to that witch Vallon, but you weren’t in your office. So Chief Bertrand saw me. He said they’d get rid of you at the Prefecture, and he’d arrest me if he ever saw me tryin’ to talk to you again. But I saw you’re still workin’ here, so I reckoned it was safe enough to wait for you, after dark.”

  Roch’s anger was now taking another direction. He relaxed his grip somewhat. “Have I your attention, Pépin?”

  The boy took a deep breath. “Oh, yes, Sir.”

  “So listen to me. By waiting a week, you allowed several murderers to escape. Now see this?” Roch, still holding Pépin with one hand, pulled his father’s knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “I may be less heavy than Chief Bertrand, but I can be far more dangerous. Don’t ever fail me again.”

  Roch pressed the flat of the knife against Pépin’s cheek. “Do you understand?”

  Pépin whimpered. “Yes, Sir. Please don’t kill me. I’ll be sure to tell you right away ness’ time I hear anythin’. I promise.”

  Roch let go of Pépin, who, rubbing his ear, hurried to pick up the coin and blend again into the shadows. Roch reentered the Prefecture and ran to Dubois’s office. His visit to the Mayenne Inn had in fact caused as much of a stir as he had hoped. Gillard, the owner, had been shaken enough to warn Francis of the danger, and he had sent a message to that Vallon woman. She must be the sister the short man had mentioned to Lambel, the grain merchant.

  If only the Prefect had let Roch keep his Inspectors there, they would have followed Pépin to the Vallon woman’s lodgings, and Short Francis might be in custody already. But what else could one expect from that scoundrel Dubois? And what about Bertrand? Had he prevented Pépin from speaking to Roch out of personal malice, or was he too deliberately protecting the assassins?

  Roch had not met the Prefect since his visit to his father at the Temple, and glowered as he entered his superior’s office. He had no choice but to share Pépin’s news, though he simply explained that one of his habitual mouchards had reported bringing a message from the Mayenne Inn to the Vallon woman. Roch omitted any mention of Bertrand’s part in delaying Pépin’s information. He would settle this account himself later, without any interference from the Prefect.

  If the Prefect found it an odd coincidence that one of Roch’s informers happened to pass by the Mayenne Inn just in time to be entrusted with a note from Gillard, he did not remark on it. He no longer showed any overt hostility. Perhaps he was resigned to tolerate Roch for a while, now that it seemed that Fouché was to remain the Minister of Police.

  The Prefect listened to Roch with great interest and marked no hesitation before issuing a warrant to search Catherine Vallon’s lodgings, along with the whole building. However, he did not breathe a word of a search of the Mayenne Inn, nor did Roch press the point. The Prefect, whatever his other shortcomings, was a steadfast friend to Gillard.

  34

  At this time of the night, Roch would have called on his father. Old Miquel would fetch a good bottle from his personal reserve, and the two men would spend some time talking over a few glasses of wine. Instead, Roch had work to do at the Prefecture to prepare the search of Catherine Vallon’s lodgings, while his father spent yet another lonely evening locked in his cell in the Temple. And Roch could only hope that nothing worse happened to Old Miquel.

  For several years of his childhood, Roch had spent much time with his father, in fact had barely left his side. That was when they walked the streets of Paris in search of rabbit skins, before the days of the Mighty Barrel and Monsieur Veau’s Academy.

  Yet before the age of eight, Roch only saw his father in summer. Old Miquel would walk to Paris at the end of every September, leaving his wife and children in Auvergne. He did not return until the following June, with four or five gold louis sewn in the belt of his breeches. Then one fine summer day, Roch heard Old Miquel announce that his eldest boy was now old enough to follow him to Paris. Roch’s mother burst into sobs. His sister, little Anna, stared in shock.

  “Enough, woman,” said Old Miquel, slapping the table. “You’re going to soften the boy. You’ve spoiled him enough already. Now he’ll be useful at last.”

  Roch’s mother dried her tears. Roch also felt much sorrow at the prospect of leaving her, and his sister too, but his pain was mingled with the excitement of seeing the great city and his pride at the idea of helping his father.

  At the end of that summer, the two of them adjusted their bundles on their backs and walked northwards for days in the direction of Paris, sleeping outdoors, by the side of hedgerows when the weather was fine, or in the stables of inns when it rained. Sometimes a driver, kinder-hearted than most, would let them climb onto the back of his cart for a league or two.

  During this first journey, Roch saw other children, and also grown men, beg on their way. Old Miquel would spit at the sight. On one occasion, Roch turned around upon hearing the hooves of a galloping horse. He was captivated by the beauty of the animal, its glossy bay coat and the rider’s fine leather boots. Without thinking, Roch took off his hat and extended his other hand, palm up. The horseman slowed down, took a quick look at the boy and tossed a copper coin at him before disappearing in a cloud of dust.

  Roch was still staring at the coin, new and shiny against the dirt of the road, when he felt his father’s large hand seizing him by his collar. Old Miquel led him, his feet barely touching the ground, into a little wood by the side of the road. Roch was covered with sweat, but he felt very cold all of a sudden. When Old Miquel let go of him a few dozen yards later, he dropped to his knees.

  “I don’t know why I did it, Father,” he said. “Please forgive me. I’ll never do it again.”

  “Have you ever seen me begging?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Down with your breeches. And roll up your shirt under your armpits,” ordered Old Miquel.

  Roch, holding his breath, obeyed. His father’s oak wood staff had many uses. It served as a walking stick during the long stretches of the journey, and as a weapon. Sometimes people would let loose their dogs after them, but the animals, after one look at the staff and the man wielding it, stopped barking and fled, their tails tucked between their legs. Old Miquel also used it on occasion to discipline his children.

  Now Roch heard the staff whistle in the air and braced himself for the first stroke, but gasped when the force of the blow rippled through his body. He shut his eyes tight to hold back tears of pain and shame. This was not the first beating he had received from Old Miquel, but it was by far the longest and harshest. Roch clenched his teeth. He did not cry out, he did not even whimper. He would at least show his father that he could accept his punishment without sniveling like a coward.

  “All right. Now look at me,” said Old Miquel at last. He grabbed Roch by his hair and raised him to his feet. The boy opened his eyes, releasing tears that rolled down his cheeks. “If I ever see you begging again, I’ll double the correction. And I’ll triple it if I catch you stealing. We may be poor, but you’ll work for every sol in your pocket, just like me and all decent people. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Now get dressed.”

  During the following week, Roch could not sleep on his back or sit down. With every step he took, the coarse linen of his shirt rubbed against his burning buttocks. Yet they proceeded briskly in the direction of Paris. Whenever Roch’s pace slowed down on the road, Old M
iquel, without stopping, applied a sharp stroke of the staff across the boy’s bottom.

  “Faster, you lazy beggar,” he said.

  The worst part of the punishment was Old Miquel’s contempt. Only during their first night in Paris did he relent. He ruffled his son’s hair. Roch seized Old Miquel’s hand and kissed it.

  “I’ll never do it again, Father,” he said.

  He kept his word. He never begged again, nor was he ever tempted to steal.

  For the following years, Roch roamed the streets of Paris by his father’s side, carrying his share of the rabbit skins. Every summer, he walked back to Auvergne with Old Miquel. Then that terrible year Roch’s mother died, along with his sister and brother. There was no one left of the family in the old country, and the man and the child together remained for good in Paris.

  That was what Pépin was missing: the affection and guidance of a father. All the little rascal had learned on the streets was to steal, beg, snitch and, on occasion, drop his breeches for a few sols. His chances of turning out well were slim. Roch felt something approaching pity for the boy.

  35

  Hopefully Pépin’s news, tardy as it was, could still be useful. Roch ordered all of his Inspectors to report immediately to the Prefecture. He spent that evening planning the arrest of Short Francis and his sister. He could not afford to take any chances, with barely eleven days remaining before Old Miquel’s deportation.

  Once on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, he posted two Inspectors at the back entrance of the Biré grocery, and another two at the front door, while he and half a dozen others, with twice as many National Guards, would search the entire house. It would be watched all night. Any visitors would be allowed to come in and be trapped inside.

  In fact, only one man, looking around in a suspicious manner, was seen entering the building around nine in the evening. Finally, at six o’clock the next morning, long before dawn, Roch pounded on the front door to the grocery.

  “Police!” he shouted.

  He heard the shuffling of feet and muffled voices. Light appeared behind the closed shutters of the grocery, and an elderly woman, a candle in her hand, opened cautiously. Roch stuck his foot in the door.

  “Chief Inspector Miquel. We have a warrant from the Prefect to search this entire house. Please step aside, Citizen.”

  The woman obeyed. She was in her chemise, wearing a nightcap. A blue knitted kerchief covered her sloping shoulders. Another woman, younger, also in her chemise, huddled behind.

  “Which one of you is Citizen Biré?”

  “It’s me, Citizen,” said the older woman. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Are you the owner of this house?” asked Roch.

  “Yes, Sir, since my husband died last year, poor man.”

  “We are looking for a François Carbon and a Catherine Vallon. We know they live here.”

  “No, Sir, they don’t anymore,” said the woman. “Catherine Vallon left one fine morning last week, before the sun was up.”

  Roch cursed under his breath. “And what about François Carbon?”

  “Oh, that one! He must’ve left with his sister, because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him either since she disappeared.”

  Roch bit his lip. Once again Short Francis was ahead of the police. He must have fled upon receiving the note brought by Pépin. That week’s delay had ruined everything.

  The woman leaned towards Roch and lowered her voice. “In fact, he wasn’t only Catherine Vallon’s brother. He slept with her too.”

  Roch suppressed a start of disgust. “Really, Citizen?”

  “And not only that, but he slept with little Madeleine as well.”

  “Who is little Madeleine?”

  “Madeleine Vallon. That’s Catherine’s daughter. His niece.”

  “Where did Carbon and his womenfolk go?” asked Roch.

  “I wish I knew, because Catherine Vallon owes me forty francs for rent. She’s a nasty woman, Sir, always looking for a quarrel. But she was like ass and shirt with that other wench upstairs, Marguerite Davignon. They’d take coffee together, with that Carbon fellow, almost every day. I guess that’s where my rent money went. I’m sure the Davignon woman knows where her friend Vallon went, but she won’t tell me.”

  “Where is this Marguerite Davignon?”

  “Oh, she’s here all right. Third floor, left door.”

  Roch rushed out up the stairs, followed by two Inspectors. He knocked at the left shaky door on the third floor with his closed fist and yelled, “Police!”

  The only response was a woman’s shrill cries. Roch kicked the door with the sole of his boot. It flew open with a crashing noise as rusty nails were pulled out of the frame. A woman, holding a petticoat with both hands in front of her ample, naked body, was standing at the far end of the room. Skirts, breeches, a man’s coat, various undergarments were strewn on the chairs, the table, the floor, as though a storm had hit the place. One could distinguish a tremulous shape in the bed. Roch pulled on the sheets and uncovered the terrified face of a man. Long, thin, red-cheeked, it did not answer to the description of any known suspect.

  “Who are you?” asked Roch.

  The man opened his mouth without uttering a sound.

  “You are under arrest,” said Roch. “Get out of bed!”

  “I can’t!” cried the man. “I’m naked.”

  Roch pulled further on the bedsheets and completely uncovered the fellow, who was lying curled in a ball on his side, his knees under his chin. Roch turned to the woman.

  “Who is this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said.

  “Oh, you don’t? And who are you?”

  “Marguerite Léger, married name Davignon.”

  “So you are married?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And where is your husband?”

  “He’s not in Paris. He drives the stagecoach to Rennes.”

  Roch felt sorry for the man. It was not easy work, being out in all weathers. It was dangerous too, especially driving to Rennes, in the West. Any wood along lonely country roads could hide a band of Chouans armed to the teeth. Roch, given his personal situation, was not inclined to cast the first stone at an adulteress, but he could not help disliking the Davignon woman.

  “So while your husband earns a living freezing his ass on the seat of his stagecoach,” he said, “you keep his bed warm with your lover?”

  “But Deniau doesn’t usually stay the night!” replied the woman in an indignant tone. “He always leaves around eleven, but last night he’d forgotten his papers. I told him that he’d be arrested by a patrol, that he’d better stay till dawn. If I’d known . . .” She frowned, as if struck by a sudden idea. “My husband won’t learn of this, will he?”

  “So you say this man is called Deniau, but he has no papers? About you? You have your papers?”

  The woman, still holding her petticoat in front of her with one arm, opened the drawer of the nightstand with her free hand. She handed Roch her Carte de Sûreté. He perused it.

  “At least you haven’t lied about your name,” he said. “And where is Catherine Vallon?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “She is your best friend. Where did she move?”

  “She . . . she didn’t say.”

  “And what of that brother of hers, François Carbon? Where is he?”

  Citizen Davignon shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know, Sir.”

  Deniau was howling as two Inspectors pulled him from the bed. Roch squatted to pick up a pair of breeches from the floor and threw them at him.

  “You, be quiet,” he ordered. He turned back to Citizen Davignon. “You are under arrest too.”

  She stared at Roch. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. And I have my papers!”

  “You are giving shelter to a man who hasn’t any. And you are lying to a police officer. Now will you please dress and follow us?”

  The woman did not budge.

 
“Fine,” said Roch. “We will take you to the Prefecture naked then. But we will need to wrap you in a blanket for the sake of decency.”

  “No!” she wailed. “Wait, I’ll dress.”

  “Then make haste.”

  Inspector Bachelot was gaping at the woman’s half-exposed thighs and breasts. Roch shoved him to make him turn around. Behind them, Citizen Davignon made little unhappy noises, half hiccups, half sniffles, as she dressed.

  At the Prefecture, Roch led Citizen Davignon to the coop, the vast cage holding the prostitutes arrested during the night. It was quite full at this time of the morning, for the whores had yet to be taken for arraignment to the Police Court. Marguerite Davignon, like any new arrival, was greeted by much cheering as a guard unlocked the gate and pushed her inside.

  “Look, girls, this beauty’s dressed like an honest woman!” cried one of the harlots. “What’s she here for, my love?” she shouted to Roch as he was leaving for his office upstairs.

  “Whoring,” he shouted back without turning around. The cheers turned into hoots. The harlots did not like unfair competition.

  Roch questioned first the fellow arrested with Citizen Davignon. He was so shaken that he had some trouble stuttering his name and occupation, René Deniau, poultry merchant. No, he did not live in the Biré house. He only went there to keep his good friend Marguerite Davignon company whenever her husband happened to be away. No, he had never seen or heard of anyone named Catherine Vallon or François Carbon. His business was only with Marguerite. He always tried his best to avoid her neighbors and their prying eyes.

  The man seemed to be telling the truth, but he would stay in custody until his story was verified. Roch could not think of a more dismal conclusion to a night of passion than an early-morning arrest. That might be the end of that romance.

  Roch pulled his watch. Eight o’clock already. Hopefully the Davignon woman had simmered long enough in the coop. In any case, time was of the essence.

  When she appeared, escorted by two National Guards, he noticed that she limped. She seemed to have lost one of her shoes. The cap and kerchief she had worn upon her arrival were missing, and her cheeks were covered with brown smears. Roch, after a glance at her disheveled state, seized a quill and a sheet of paper. He pointed to a chair, in which she sat gingerly. He began writing the usual opening phrases of her statement.