Duval and the Italian Opera Singer

by Michele McGrath

“She’s been ill and lost her voice so she can’t sing any more. She wants the Emperor to support her son.”

  “Have you seen this child?”

  “Not yet. I said I would call and tell her what had been decided. I’ll arrive when he is likely to be with her.”

  Réal sat down. His eyes looked far away, deep in thought. I waited until he spoke again.

  “Call on the girl, see the boy, then report back to me.”

  “What can I tell her?”

  “Nothing yet. We must check her story. You fought in Italy around then didn’t you?”

  “At Marengo and Rivoli and in a lot of skirmishes.” I agreed and gave a laugh. Réal looked at me curiously. “During the battle of Rivoli I caught the Emperor’s horse when it bolted past me. An Austrian shell spooked it so he lost control.”

  “Did he thank you?”

  “That’s all he did; I got no other reward, but he remembered the incident when we met again some years ago.”

  Réal smiled. “Not surprising. He has a wonderful memory even for trivial things. Do you write Italian as well as speak it?”

  I nodded. “Yes. My grandmother taught me. It is not so different from French.”

  “Then write to La Scala about this girl and any other places that might help us to find out more about her. Who would know about her affair?”

  “Friends, her parents possibly, although she said she became estranged from them after the boy was born.”

  “Who was with the Emperor at Marengo and in Milan?”

  “Kellerman, Lannes, Victor and Savary fought in that battle amongst others. Berthier accompanied him as Chief of Staff, of course.”

  “I’ll write to Berthier and ask him. In his position he would have known where the Emperor was at all times and most likely who he was with. I’ll also contact our people in the area to make discreet enquiries.”

  “You think it is that important then?”

  He stared at me. “Where have your wits gone begging, Duval? You’re not usually so slow. Of course it’s important. It changes everything if it is true. The Emperor wants his own son to succeed him, not one of his brothers’ offspring or the Empress’s child. He thinks it’s his fault that Joséphine has never quickened, because she bore those two children to Beauharnais. If he finds out the problem is her’s, then he will divorce her and marry a foreign princess who will give him heirs. Tallyrand would be in high fettle at the very thought, one less enemy to fight.”

  “The Empress would not be pleased.”

  “No. If it is proved he can sire his own offspring, she won’t be able to hold him, even though he cares for her in his own way. Poor woman.”

  I nodded. I had always considered Joséphine to be a sad figure, unable to give her husband the one thing he wants above all others, the tie that would bind him to her forever.

  “So it’s vital that we find out the truth about this affair. Until we do, nothing must happen to bring either of the Continis to the attention of anyone who could harm them. Once all the reports are in, then I will lay the facts in front of the Minister for his decision. No doubt he will be delighted to be told of yet another complication.”

  I smiled, but I had no idea how Fouché would react. Pleased or uncomfortable? The only certainty was that he would show his real feelings to no one.

  I left the Ministry but I did not immediately head for the Rue d’Amiens. I needed to decide what to say to Carla Contini first. So I went to the Rose des Neiges, the tavern which my friends and I frequent when we want somewhere to hold a quiet conversation. A grimy place with a poetic name, Rose of the Snows. The proprietor’s father was born in Brienne and named the inn after his home, high in the mountains. His son had no poetry in him at all and would probably have called it the Red Cow or something like that. The thought always amused me.

  Lefebvre was there when I arrived, sitting in our usual booth, so I slid into the bench beside him.

  “You look rather solemn, Soldier. What’s up?” Lefebvre has called me ‘Soldier’ from the day we met. I was fresh from the army then and as green as grass.

  “Nothing much.”

  “You were never a good liar and I know you far too well.”

  “Do you have any Italian friends, Jean?”

  “I might. Why?”

  “Not sure I am allowed to tell you the full story at the moment, but can you find out if any of them lived in Milan? Specifically were any of them in the city just after the battle of Marengo?”

  “Now that’s one of the oddest requests you’ve ever made to me.”

  I grinned. “It is, isn’t it? I mean it though. It might be helpful.”

  “Why can’t you tell me why you’re chasing Italians?”

  “Réal won’t let me.”

  “Oh ho, he’s involved is he? Another case?”

  I nodded. “I have to make some preliminary enquiries. Depending on what I find out, he will decide whether the matter goes any further or not. It’s probably rubbish so let’s hope it doesn’t. If it does, I’ll ask formally for your help. Will that do?”

  “D’accord.”

  We chatted about other things until we had finished our wine. Lefebvre left the tavern but I stayed, for I still had not decided what to do. In the end I decided there was no easy or polite way to tell Carla Contini that her story would be carefully checked. She would have to remain in Paris until the outcome of that investigation.

  36 bis Rue d’Amiens was in the cellar under one of the lodging houses. The best that can be said for the dwelling was that it was large. A strong smell of garlic and onions met me when the door opened. A small woman, wearing unrelieved black, stood before me. She spoke French but with a tone of voice that reminded me of my grandmother. Wherever she came from, it could not be far from Modena and she had not lost her accent.

  I decided to answer her in Italian and when she heard me, her face beamed. She flung the door open and ushered me into a space that was obviously being used as her kitchen. It seemed to be a comfortable room although it had no natural light. Three lanterns and a small fire supplied the illumination. Three chairs and a stool stood by the hearth. A table was in the centre of the room. Two doors led into what must be the sleeping area, for I saw no beds in the kitchen, nor any cupboards to store mattresses in.

  “What are you cooking?” I asked her, my nose twitching.

  “Zampone. Have you ever eaten it?”

  “Nonna used to cook it. She was from Modena.”

  “Your grandmother came from Modena? How wonderful. No wonder you speak my language so well. It’s rare I hear it in this city. I’m glad you came to see me. What is your name?”

  “Alain Duval, but my grandmother insisted I should be called also be called Francesco.” I grinned. The name had been an embarrassment to me when I was growing up and I had almost forgotten it. This was the first time it had ever proved useful.

  “After the great saint, may he and the Blessed Virgin take care of you. Who was your grandmother?”

  “Elisabetta Bergamini.”

  A discussion occurred which suggested that we were in some way related although she went back through so many cousins and marriages I became quite bewildered. I would have still been there listening to her, except the door opened and a small boy rushed into the room. The woman, whose name was Sofia, caught him up, kissed him and then turned to me with him in her arms. I found it hard not to gasp. Napoléon in miniature. The boy had the same features and expressions I remembered from the young general. Actually I had forgotten most of them until I saw them again on the child’s face. Marco was smiling at me. I wondered if any pictures of the Emperor as a boy existed. Perhaps Madame Mère had one, although the family was poor in those days so it wasn’t likely. No reason why we could not ask. It would not be proof, but it might change the probabilities in favour of Marco. To my surprise, I hoped so. The little chap was engaging.

  “He is very like, is he not?” Carla had come in after her son and was standing behind me. I turn
ed to face her.

  “Like two peas in a pod,” I confirmed.

  “What news do you have for me?”

  “May we sit down and discuss it?”

  “Do you want me to leave you, my dear?” Sofia asked immediately.

  “No, you know my story. Sofia was one of the dressers at La Scala until she married a French soldier and moved to Paris,” Carla explained to me.

  “Can you confirm what Carla has told me?” I asked Sofia.

  “Sadly no, my mother was ill and I was not in Milan at that time. I know many who were though.”

  “If you give me their names and an idea where they lived when you left Milan, we will question them.” I turned to Carla. “Your claim has not been dismissed, but neither can we bring it before the Emperor until an investigation has been made. We must write to Milan and wait for the replies to make sure that your story is fact. I’m sorry, but you will understand the need. Many people come to see us and not all of them are truthful. If what you have told me is confirmed, things will move swiftly, so please remain in Paris until the checks are complete.”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere else and no money to pay the fare,” she said simply. “The little I earn by helping Sofia to do some washing and sewing buys us food but there is not enough is left over to buy our passage home.”

  I copied down the information Sofia gave me but Marco’s antics kept distracting me. Obviously he was a much loved child and used to everybody’s attention. He wanted me to play with him and, being a father myself, I was sorely tempted. Once my notes were finished, we played together until we were both laughing. Carla and Sofia kept watching us as they went about their tasks, smiling in sympathy. Eventually, I remembered my other duties and got up to leave.

  “May I come again?” I asked. “No matter what happens? I’ve enjoyed myself, which is rare in the job I have to do.”

  “Anyone whose grandmother comes from Modena is always welcome in my house,” Sofia told me, smiling broadly.

  Chapter 3

  The letters were written, packaged up and despatched by courier to Milan. Réal also wrote to his own contacts, spies by another name. Lefebvre reported that he had renewed his acquaintance with some of the Italians he knew.

  “And that will cost you ten francs for the wine, mon ami.” An enormous amount.

  “How much did you drink between you? A barrel?”

  “They’re thirsty these Italians.”

  “And you’re not, I suppose?”

  “How could I let them beat me in a drinking contest? I was upholding the honour of La Belle France.”

  “A fine story,” I protested but in the end I paid him half of what he asked, knowing I would be left to recoup my money from our paymaster; not an easy task.

  Then we waited and waited. Eventually the replies started to trickle into the office. The director of La Scala confirmed that Maria Carla Contini had indeed been a singer in the chorus at the time of Napoléon’s visit. He would not say whether the Emperor had ever been enamoured of her; wise of him, of course, to keep out of any controversy. In his position I would do the same.

  One or two people said that Carla had been seen in the Emperor’s company. The great Grassini answered in a gloating missive that she had taken him from ‘that timid little girl’ with no effort at all. ‘After all, why should he settle for base metal when he could have gold?’ to quote her phrase. After I received her letter, I felt I had enough information to take to Réal. I wanted to compare my findings with anything he had discovered.

  “Spiteful cat,” he murmured when he had read Grassini’s missive. “These answers to your questions seem to prove that the Emperor and this woman Contini were together in Milan but for how long remains another matter. Grassini suggests that they were lovers, yet that is not conclusive. I, on the other hand, have done rather better.”

  “Marechal Berthier?” I guessed.

  “Constant.”

  Constant was Napoléon’s chief valet. The man who, rumour said, was responsible for organising his master’s most intimate affairs.

  “That must have cost you plenty.”

  “Constant is no fool. He knows it’s not wise to antagonise the Police. The price was really quite reasonable for the information received.” Réal smiled.

  “What did he say?”

  “He remembers this girl. She spent a night or two with the Emperor at the time of Marengo, just as she said.”

  “He has an excellent memory,” I said dryly, “to remember such a short affair after all this time.”

  “I imagine he writes these things down in case they become useful to him later.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him, would you? He is wary, so I have no evidence against him yet. If ever I do, the Emperor will be the first to be told. However, this evidence means that the girl’s claim cannot be dismissed as complete fantasy.”

  “Then what happens next?”

  “We show our evidence to the Minister. Come with me.”

  Réal picked up his papers and the copied portraits. He tapped on the door that separated the anteroom from Fouché’s office.

  “Let us go.”

  Fouché was sitting at his desk reading from a great pile of documents that lay before him. He nodded when he saw us.

  “Réal, Duval?”

  Réal answered for us both, since he is Fouché’s deputy.

  “A matter of some importance has arisen, Monseigneur.”

  Fouché leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes as if they were tired and looked at us.

  “You intrigue me, continue.”

  “It is possible that we may have found a son of the Emperor.”

  Fouché suddenly sat upright, his pale face showing, for once, a little colour.

  “Indeed? Is this proved?”

  “Constant vouches for the fact that the girl was with the Emperor at the relevant time. The boy is his image.”

  “How much did you pay Constant?”

  Réal mentioned a sum and Fouché nodded. “Modest enough. He may be telling the truth for once. I wonder why? Have you seen this child?”

  “No, but Duval has.”

  Fouché looked at me enquiringly, so I said, “You remember I served with the Emperor in Italy, Monseigneur?” Fouché nodded. “The boy is very like him as he was then. Same features, same expression.” I remembered the phrase I had murmured at Sofia’s and added, “A young Napoléon in miniature.”

  “This is a copy of a portrait of the boy, Monseigneur. His name is Marco Contini.”

  Réal unrolled the picture so the Minister could study it. Fouché’s face did not change, it rarely does. He has learned discretion the hard way. During the Revolution he was a Jacobin, a Regicide and the instigator of the Noyades, the terrible mass drownings in the river Rhône. No one in the Empire is more feared or has more enemies.

  “I remember…” he said softly. “What is the mother’s name?”

  “Maria Carla Contini, a former singer in the chorus at La Scala.”

  “And what does she want?”

  “Duval?” Réal turned to me.

  “She wants to meet the Emperor and show him her son. Secondly, she hopes for his assistance for the boy. Carla has lost her voice and can no longer sing. She is not able to support both of them properly.”

  “I see.” Fouché steepled his fingers and closed his eyes as he does when he is thinking hard. When he opened them again he said, “I must consider the implications of what you have just told me. Leave the papers here and say nothing to anyone else. I will send for you again.”

  We bowed and left him. I went back to my other tasks but I found it hard to keep the images of Marco and his mother out of my mind. About a week passed, then I returned to their lodgings to tell them that there was still no news. The disappointment on Carla’s face was distressing and I knew it was foolish of me to get so involved with the people in a case. It was with some relief then, a few days later, tha
t I answered the Minister’s summons. When I came into his room he looked at me keenly and nodded.

  “Monseigneur?”

  “I intend to bring the Contini affair to the Emperor’s notice. He will undoubtedly want to question you. You look respectable enough today to enter his presence, so you can accompany me.”

  I stood aside to let him walk in front of me. I was grinning, remembering other occasions when I had not been dressed respectably at all and had still seen the Emperor. He remains at heart a general who has witnessed worse sights on a battlefield. The drive to the Tuileries was quite short and I spent the time organising my thoughts. Fouché was unusually silent. Except for the usual warning not to say too much and to confirm anything he told the Emperor, he said very little.

  Fouché had arranged our visit in advance and the Emperor did not keep us waiting long. Napoléon seemed to be in good humour. He advanced down the room from his desk to meet us. Usually, visitors must walk the full distance of the room before he even raises his eyes.

  “Well, Fouché, what is this good news that you hinted at in your note?” he asked.

  “Perhaps it would be as well if you would take a seat, Sire.”

  “As good as that?” Napoléon looked at him quizzically. “My nerves are not so easily upset. Has my greatest enemy died?”

  “This does not concern your enemies, Sire. It is of a more intimate nature.”

  Napoléon’s eyebrows rose. “Are you spying on me again?”

  “Of course not, Sire,” Fouché said hastily although we both knew that he was lying. Spying is his business and has saved his life on more than one occasion.

  The Emperor sat down and waved us to seats in front of him.

  “No more procrastinating. Tell me what this is all about.”

  “It is possible that you have a son, Sire.” If Fouché had dropped a bomb into the room, the effect could not have been more spectacular. Napoléon leapt to his feet and leaned over the desk. I had the fancy that he wanted to pick Fouché up by his lapels and shake him like a rat. The Minister, though, sat quite still. He kept smiling.

  “Why do you waste my time with this nonsense? You know I can’t sire children. I suppose there is another woman, pleading poverty and wanting me to give her money. There have been enough of them.”