The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  Montigny grunted.

  “I also searched Bricon’s lodgings. His landlady let me into his room. I found these documents. I’d like you to take a look at them.”

  He stood, went over to the small table beside his bed, and returned with a pair of spectacles. He unfolded them and put them on his face, then took up the blackmail note, which I had put at the top of the pile. He rubbed his finger over the page, slowly mouthing the words.

  “What is this?” he asked, looking up at me. “It seems to be a threat of some sort.”

  “Is that Bricon’s handwriting, do you know?”

  “Yes. Yes, this is Gaspard’s hand. Are you saying he was blackmailing someone?”

  “It appears so.”

  He threw the page down on the table. “No, I cannot believe that. My friend was an honest man. He was no blackmailer.”

  “All men have secrets,” I said. “Sometimes dire circumstances can lead someone to do something completely out of character.”

  He picked up the note again and studied it. “That is definitely Gaspard’s hand,” he said. “He always added that little squiggle when he wrote the letter I. And all of these blots. He was a messy writer. Whenever he wrote out the words to his songs he had to do it two or three times until they were neat enough to sell.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “He demands one thousand livres! What was he thinking of? Who was this note addressed to?”

  I handed him the clipping from the Gazette de France. “This was on the table with the draft of the note,” I said, pointing to the piece about Duval. I waited while he slowly read the article.

  “You believe Gaspard was blackmailing this man?” he asked.

  “Do you remember if he ever mentioned the name Marc-Étienne Duval?”

  He thought for a moment, then blinked. “No, this is the first time I’ve heard that name. What business would Gaspard have had with an inspector of police?”

  “Think back,” I urged him. “Can you recall anything he said or did before his disappearance that indicated he was in some sort of trouble, or had some sort of project in mind?”

  “No, no. As I told you the other day, there was nothing, except for that time in September when he told me he had seen a ghost from the past on the bridge. Do you think he had seen this Duval?” His hands trembled. “Oh, no. If he was blackmailing this man—an inspector of police! Gaspard! You idiot! What if Duval received the blackmail note and came after Gaspard? He could be in grave danger!”

  “We don’t know for sure that Duval is the man that Bricon tried to blackmail, or that he was the person he saw on the Pont Neuf. I need to make a few more enquiries.” I handed him the third page I had taken from Bricon’s room, the one with the two columns of initials and names. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  He glanced at the paper. “No. I don’t know what this is.” He handed the page back to me.

  “I found something else in Bricon’s room,” I said. “He had created a hiding place under a floorboard. I found a box that contained two items.” I did not mention that I had had to pick the lock on the box to get it open, for I didn’t think my client would approve of my methods.

  “A hidden box?” Montigny frowned.

  “Yes. Inside was a rosary—not an expensive one—and a tarnished locket engraved with the letter M. There was a piece of hair inside the locket. Have you ever seen Bricon with these items? Had he ever told you about the box?’

  Montigny’s eyes widened. “No, no,” he stammered. He gulped the air. “Of course, I’ve seen Gaspard’s rosary. He sometimes carried it with him when we were out, in case he decided to go to Mass afterwards.” He shook his head. “But I’ve never seen such a locket.”

  “I wonder why he hid them away,” I mused. “Perhaps he was afraid that his blackmail scheme could put him in danger and he would have to leave the city, so he hid them away for safekeeping until he could make his way back.”

  Montigny exhaled loudly. “Yes. That’s probably why he hid them. He was afraid that Duval would harm him. But what has happened to him? Where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m determined to find out.”

  After I left my client I walked over to Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, hoping to speak to the churchwarden’s wife. I found her in the first small chapel to the right of the main door. A wide board had been set on a trestle as a makeshift work table, and she was absorbed in the task of choosing leaves from a large pile of evergreens and arranging them with purple-berried twigs in small earthenware pots.

  I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Madame Desmarets?” I asked.

  She looked up. “Yes, I am Claudine Desmarets. May I help you?”

  She was an excellent example of a bourgeois lady, petite, with a halo of light blond hair curled into ringlets and bright blue, intelligent eyes. She wore a dress of fine black wool, its shoulders trimmed with red bows, a white silk ruff circling its neck. The matching hat, decorated with red plumes, sat on a bench beside the table.

  “My name is Paul Gastebois. I’m a confidential inquirer here in the city.”

  “A confidential inquirer? How interesting. How can I be of assistance to an confidential inquirer?”

  Her small, delicate hands wielded the sharp shears with authority as she cut a branch in two and discarded the bottom half.

  “I am looking for a man I believe you know, Gaspard Bricon.”

  “Gaspard?” She frowned. “Has something happened to him? I’ve been wondering where he had gone. He usually comes by most days, to have a chat and help me place the flowers.”

  “He’s been missing for a few weeks. A friend of his is worried about him and hired me to find him.”

  “Oh dear. I just assumed he had left the city, perhaps gone home to his village. It never occurred to me that he might be in some trouble. Do you think he has come to harm?”

  “I don’t know, madame. I hope not. His friend, my client, told me that in September, Bricon had seen someone from his past. Did he ever mention that to you?”

  She shook her head. “He never said much about himself, his family, or his life before he came to Paris. I didn’t want to pry. We usually just spoke about goings on in the city, or politics. He was very interested in the upcoming Estates General.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I’ll admit, we did gossip a bit. He had some amusing things to say about Father Armande, the vicaire here.”

  “When you saw him last, did he seem worried or agitated?”

  “No. He was his usual self.” She placed the last leaf and stood back to admire her work.

  “He was a very funny man, a bit sardonic. I believe he actually hated it here in Paris. He told me once about his village. He described it so well—the forests, the hills, the clean air. I told him he should write a song about it. I could sense that he was homesick.”

  “Did he mention the name of the village?” Perhaps I could track down some other immigrants here in Paris from the area, who might know Bricon.

  She reached for a branch. “Let me think. Ardennes? No, that doesn’t sound right. Oh, I know. Varennes. It was Varennes. I don’t know where it is in France, but he made it sound very beautiful.” She sighed. “I’ve never seen the rest of the country. I’ve never been outside Paris.”

  “Nor have I, madame,” I said.

  “Poor Gaspard. He was like a lot of immigrants here in the city these days. Everything is very difficult for them. There are so many people coming from the provinces. My husband says it is because there is little work for them where they come from. But it is no better for them here in Paris.” She gestured around the chapel. “We try to do as much as we can for them here in the church, but the problem is too big. The grain prices are so high now, we cannot feed all of the people we’d like to.”

  I bit back a comment about the mean-spirited Father Armande’s abuse of the immigrants when I had been here yesterday.

  “I hope the Estates General will be able to fix the government’s finances, so the k
ing can have money to spend on feeding the people,” she said. “The government is so corrupt—those courtiers—I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” She shuddered. “So many scandals! And they have their hands on all the government’s money. They do nothing to help the people who are starving here in the city.” She vehemently poked a branch into the pot. “But the Estates General will help the king fix everything. I’m sure of it.”

  “Thank you, madame. You’ve been very helpful,” I said. I pointed to a group of floral arrangements on the floor. “May I help you place these?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. One of the boys will carry them for me.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, madame.” She smiled. I turned to leave.

  “Monsieur Gastebois?” she called.

  I turned back. “Yes, madame?”

  “When you find out what has happened to Gaspard, will you come and tell me? However bad the news?”

  “Of course, madame,” I said. For some reason, I don’t know why, I gave a slight bow. As I left the church and walked down the steps past a group of beggars crouched in the cold rain, I hoped I wouldn’t have to return here to tell her that Bricon was dead.

  • •

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The rue Plâtrière, located just north of Les Halles in back of the Church of Saint-Eustache, is wider than most streets in central Paris, and is lined with the neat houses of artisans, a few prosperous shops, and the headquarters of the city post office. As I made my way to my destination at its very end, residents had finished their dinners and were emerging from their homes, ready to enjoy a walk on this brisk, sunny Sunday afternoon.

  I stopped before a small seamstress shop. A large window hung to the left of the cheerful yellow door. The stoop had been carefully swept that morning; the broom leaned against the wall nearby, ready for service should the mistress of this establishment spot a speck of dirt on her way out to the street.

  A bell chimed as I pushed open the door and entered. The workshop was one room, well-sized, bright with the sunlight streaming through the large window. A small fire crackled in the fireplace. No one was about, and the door to the back room was closed.

  “Madame Garsault? Aimée?” I called.

  “One moment,” a voice answered from behind the closed door.

  I looked around the familiar room. Two fat rolls of blue wool sat upon a wide table that had been pulled beneath the window to catch the light. Dresses in various stages of finish hung from large pegs on the wall to the right. In the opposite corner of the room stood a tailor’s mannequin, a large mirror on a stand, and a screen behind which clients could try on garments. On the wall behind me was a chest of drawers. Shelves mounted above it displayed the mistress’s collection of accoutrements for making coffee—a mill, a sturdy pot, cups and saucers, and a box to hold beans.

  I went over to the fireplace, where Madame had hung a large etching over the mantel. The picture showed a buxom woman wearing a sash labeled “France” presenting the recently reappointed finance minister, Jacques Necker, to the king, while behind them delighted couples frolicked and sunbeams peeked from dark clouds in the sky.

  The door to the back room opened and a small woman entered. Her dark curly hair showed streaks of gray, while her shoulders were rounded from years of bending over her sewing. She was dressed in a modest, but not dowdy, light gray woolen dress, with a simple gold watch pinned to the right shoulder. Because she had been born with thin lips that seemed to be perpetually pursed, she wore an air of slight worry, but I knew her to be a woman of fine humor, kind and motherly, but also a skilled seamstress and sharp businesswoman. In all, a woman to whom a brother could entrust his young sister.

  “Good afternoon, Paul,” she said, giving me a warm smile. “Aimée will be out soon. How are you?”

  “I am well, madame,” I replied.

  “I see you’ve discovered my latest purchase,” she said, nodding toward the etching over the mantel.

  “I’ve never considered Monsieur Necker in the role of demigod,” I said. “But this artist has me convinced.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps not a god, but now that he is back, the king will finally be able to solve the financial crisis. That business last summer, when the government devalued the annuities—it terrified me.” Many Parisians held their assets in government annuities. In August, in an attempt to forestall the bankruptcy that had been hanging over the government for a year, the king’s finance minister had decreed that interest on the annuities would be paid in treasury notes rather than in coin. His order had caused a run on the stock exchange and had been quickly withdrawn. The man had been dismissed and Necker recalled.

  “I was nervous, too,” I said. When, seven years ago, I had refused to follow the wishes of my newly deceased father and apprentice myself to a butcher in the Marais, the executor of his will had first protested, but had soon tired of my stubbornness and had finally agreed to allow me the funds that my father had set aside for my training. He had looked down his long nose at me and advised me to invest the money in annuities. I had promptly taken his advice.

  I gestured to the dresses hanging on the wall. “Business appears good,” I said.

  She shrugged. “We are very busy right now, since the holidays are approaching. Yet I’m not doing as well as this time last year. Many clients are not ordering new dresses—they are bringing in their old ones to have new ribbons stitched on and holes mended. But I’m confident things will improve once the Estates General meets next year.” She smiled. “Aimée is a great help. Her stitching is coming along beautifully. She’ll be a mistress herself someday. And she is good company to me.”

  “Have you had any more trouble from Mademoiselle Bohen?” I asked. Agnès Bohen was a seamstress who had set up shop two blocks away from here and had refused to join the guild. I had gathered evidence against her for Madame Garsault to take to her guild office, and at the end of my investigation we had agreed that I would not charge her if she took on my sister as her apprentice.

  “No, I haven’t heard of her since the guild shut her down. She’s probably moved somewhere else in the city, or out to the faubourgs.” She looked at me and hesitated.

  “What is it, madame? Some trouble with Aimée?”

  “Oh, no. It is just—I hate to have to ask you this. The price of bread is so high now, and it seems to increase a few more sous every week. I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more money from you to cover Aimée’s meals.”

  I tried not to wince. I knew I was better off than many Parisians, but everything was getting too expensive these days. I pulled out my purse and handed her some coins. “I’ll bring some more next week,” I said.

  “Thank you, Paul. I wish I did not have to ask.”

  “Please do not worry, madame. I think the money I pay you is a good investment. I rest easy, knowing Aimée is in good hands.”

  “Aimée is what?” My baby sister appeared in the doorway, holding her cloak in her hand. Not a baby anymore, though, I thought, but changing every week—sixteen years old already, becoming a woman before my eyes. She had the Gastebois family look: tawny-colored hair, brown eyes flecked with green, and full pink lips. All of these were much more pleasing in her face than in mine.

  She came to me and we embraced.

  “I was just telling Madame Garsault that I know I don’t have to worry about you,” I said as I helped her on with her cloak.

  Aimée rolled her eyes at her mistress. “Brothers,” she said. We all laughed.

  Madame Garsault went to the chest against the wall and pulled a woolen scarf from the top drawer. “Here, Aimée, take this to wrap your neck. Put your hood up. It is very cold outside.”

  When Aimée had done what her mistress had instructed, I fastened my own cloak. “Where to today, mademoiselle?” I asked, feigning a deep bow.

  She toyed with a lock of her hair and looked up at me through thick, long lashes, a gesture which in the past had seemed innocent but today suddenly made me want to ask Mad
ame to lock her in the attic until she was of marriageable age.

  “The Palais Royal, of course,” she said.

  Before his father had died and bequeathed him the title of duc d’Orléans, the king’s first cousin Louis Philippe, duc de Chartres, had been a man-about-town, and, although married to the daughter of the wealthiest man in France, had been regularly low on funds. He had obtained permission from his father to surround the long, rectangular garden behind the family’s grand baroque city mansion with three tasteful buildings of three stories each, with elegant shops on the ground floors and expensive apartments above. The development occupied a prime location in the center of Paris, across the rue Saint-Honoré from the Louvre and Tuileries palaces, and when it had opened two years ago, the garden had quickly become the place to see and be seen in Paris. The apartments had quickly filled, and now the ground floor was fully occupied by luxury shops, theaters, small museums, and cafés.

  “How are you, Little Chicken?” I asked Aimée as we walked the three blocks to the northern entrance of the garden.

  She groaned. “Stiff from sitting in church all morning. I wish Madame would not make me go with her. It is so boring.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Don’t tell Bernard I said that.”

  “Madame says you are doing well with your work,” I said.

  “Yes. I’ve learned all of the stitches. Now I just have to practice them so I’ll be able to sew faster. She might teach me to cut cloth soon.”

  “She told me she expects you’ll have a shop of your own one day.”

  My sister snorted. “Well, if I do, I certainly won’t waste my time on all of the dull dresses we make now. I am so tired of gray and pale blue. And everything is so plain—at most a client will ask for a simple ribbon, never anything fancier. I want to be like Madame Bertin, designing dresses for the grand ladies.”

  We reached the Palais Royal and crossed through the northern gate into the garden. Ahead of us, a guard had detained a slim girl in the stained apron of a kitchen maid.