The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  He pulled my pamphlet out from under the counter and handed it to me. “Listen,” he said. “I know some people who are involved in this business. Go to the Palais Royal, to Grivaux’s shop in the Camp of the Tartars. He carries many illegal pamphlets, and even has a printing press of his own. The duc d’Orléans allows all the booksellers over there to print and sell whatever they like. Since he is the king’s cousin, the police have no jurisdiction on his property. Tell Grivaux I sent you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Also, I have a young friend who writes pamphlets like the Memoir. He lives up near the customs wall on the way to Montmartre. If you’d like to talk to him, I’ll send him a message, to see if he’s willing.”

  “That would be useful,” I said. “I’d like to have a better understanding of what the old peddler was involved with.”

  “But don’t get your hopes up too much, Paul,” Houssemaine said. “It’s going to be hard to find a link between a publisher and the dead man. The whole industry depends on secrecy.”

  I placed the paper with the lists inside the pamphlet. “By the way, do you speak any foreign languages?” I asked.

  “Several,” he answered. “Why do you ask? Are you looking for a specific book?”

  “No. I heard a word last night. I was wondering if you knew what it meant. Arschloch, I think it was.”

  Houssemaine laughed. “That means ‘asshole’ in German. Where did you hear it?”

  “Oh, I was in a tavern last night. I spilled some beer on a man, and he called me that,” I lied.

  “Austrians, probably, or even Prussians,” Houssemaine said. “There are plenty of men from both countries around Paris these days.”

  I tucked Madame’s Memoir into my pocket and thanked my neighbor. We agreed to have dinner together sometime soon. As I went to the door, I turned to ask my last question.

  “Have you ever heard of a policeman named Duval? Marc-Étienne Duval?”

  His eyes bulged slightly and his complexion paled a shade.

  “The inspector for publishing? Of course I have. All booksellers know his name. I’ve heard he’s been very aggressive since he arrived in Paris, seizing pamphlets like the one you have there. I hope you haven’t fallen on his wrong side,” he said.

  “No, I just happened to meet him at police court last week,” I said.

  “He’s arrested a lot of booksellers,” Houssemaine said, shuddering. “I pray I never have an opportunity to meet him.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said. But I knew by his reaction to Duval’s name that he had already made acquaintance with the man.

  I thought through what I had learned from Houssemaine as I hurried to the Palais Royal. Gaspard Bricon had been selling illegal pamphlets before his disappearance and subsequent murder. As far as I could tell, he had been blackmailing Duval. Had I finally found the connection I’d been looking for between the two men? Had Bricon, while selling the illegal Memoir of Madame Désirée, somehow stumbled on a secret the police inspector was anxious to hide? Had Duval beaten Bricon to death because of the blackmail threats?

  Crowds were strolling about the gardens of the Palais Royal enjoying the morning sunshine when I entered. I found Grivaux’s bookstore among the wooden huts in the Camp of the Tartars, next door to a large tent where an impossibly skinny, tall hawker was selling tickets to view a four-hundred-pound man—”an amazing spectacle of avoirdupois, ladies and gentlemen.” I ignored his sales pitch and entered Grivaux’s establishment. Unlike Houssemaine’s shop, this one was small and cramped, its shabbiness apparent even in the dim light. A customer in a threadbare, patched cloak pawed through a pile of torn and ragged books set on a low table.

  I walked to the counter at the back.

  “May I help you, monsieur?” Grivaux was an older man, lantern-jawed, with an old-fashioned periwig perched crookedly on his head. He wore a rumpled coat and waistcoat of a style current ten years ago.

  “I’m looking to buy some pamphlets,” I said in a low voice.

  He cupped his hand to his ear and leaned over the counter. “A pamphlet?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice to match mine. “What sort of pamphlet? I carry many pamphlets here.”

  “I was told this was the place to come for publications about current affairs,” I said.

  “That is true, monsieur. You are well-informed. I get all the pamphlets before they are distributed to the coffeehouses and the colporteurs. Are you looking for a particular writer or subject matter? I have everything a gentleman like you would care to read about the debates over the Estates General.” He picked a pamphlet off the counter and waved it in my face. “And this one just came in. It’s about the government’s grain policy.”

  “No,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I was hoping you had something more—salacious.”

  The old man lifted a brow. Finally he dropped his voice. “Pornography, monsieur? I don’t sell that rubbish.”

  “No, no,” I said, leaning in closer. “I meant writings about the court—about the activities among the courtiers.”

  “Ah, the court. I see. Well, of course, monsieur, I am aware that such publications exist, but I am running an honest business here. I don’t carry them.”

  I leaned closer to him. “Théophile Houssemaine recommended you to me,” I murmured.

  The old man looked over my shoulder at the other customer. “Just a moment,” he said. He came out from behind the counter and approached the man.

  “Might I be of assistance to you?” he asked.

  The customer looked up. “No, thank you.”

  Grivaux nodded and returned to me. A few minutes later, the man left the shop and we were alone.

  “I must be careful,” Grivaux said. “Even here in the Palais Royal, where the duc has allowed the press to operate freely, the police still send spies. But that one was just a beggar, trying to keep warm. Now. You are a friend of Théophile?”

  “Yes. We are neighbors. He told me you might have information about a pamphlet about the queen, her favorites, and the king’s brother.”

  “Ah, the Memoir of Madame Désirée?”

  “Yes, that is the one.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that one anymore, monsieur. I sold out my small allotment the first day I received it.” He smiled. “It is very popular. I have similar pamphlets I could show you, though.”

  “I don’t wish to buy the pamphlet,” I said. “I’ve already read it. No, I am looking for the man who published it. Would you be willing to tell me who supplied you with your copies?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, I couldn’t, monsieur.”

  I reached into my pocket, drew out a plug of tobacco, and placed it on the counter.

  “No, you misunderstand me,” the old man said. “I don’t know who published it. I never deal with publishers directly. I have no idea who wrote that pamphlet, or who printed it. There’s a bouquiniste down by the river who brings me publications to sell. I have no idea where he gets them. The pamphlets are illegal, you see. It is safer for everyone involved if we don’t know who writes and publishes them.”

  “Could you give me the bouquiniste’s name?” I asked.

  He hesitated, eying the tobacco.

  “I won’t tell him you sent me. Don’t worry, I won’t cause any trouble for him. I’m only interested in this pamphlet because of a case I’m working on. I’m a confidential inquirer, investigating a murder.”

  He gaped at me. “A murder?”

  “Yes. A song peddler who was selling the pamphlet was killed.”

  “You believe he was killed because of the pamphlet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pondered for a moment. “I’ve been selling illegal publications for thirty years now. Of course, the government has arrested many of us and thrown us in prison for a few years, but I’ve never heard of anyone murdered.” He looked me in the eye. “I assume Théophile will vouch for your trustworthiness. The man’s name is Simon Janaret. He’s usua
lly on the quai des Augustins, right across from the church.”

  I nodded and handed the tobacco to him. “Thank you,” I said.

  “I hope he can help you. But remember. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

  I went outside and walked through the gardens of the Palais Royal. As I passed by the eastern arcade, I saw a petite young woman in a fashionable blue cloak go into the fashion merchant’s shop. My eyes widened. She was Juliette Lesage, Aimée’s friend.

  I stepped over and peered in the shop window. The small room was crowded with female customers, with no man in sight. Juliette was at the counter in the back, speaking to a shop girl. I stepped to the door but then, hesitant to intrude on the feminine domain, stood and fidgeted. Perhaps I should just wait here until Juliette emerged, I thought.

  “Are you going in or staying out, monsieur?” a voice said behind me. A stout matron wearing a large hat with a bright pink plume frowned at me. She was accompanied by two young women, one of whom batted her eyelashes at me. When I smiled at her, she flushed.

  “I am sorry, madame,” I said, giving a slight bow. I moved away from the door. The woman pulled it open and held it for her daughters, who rushed inside.

  Their mother continued to hold the door open. “Well, are you coming?” she asked, a mischievous smile on her lips.

  I nodded, steeled myself, and plunged inside. I stopped just inside the door and looked around me. The walls of the shop had been covered in light gray paper in order to allow the colors of the merchandise to stand out. The long back counter, where Juliette was now completing a purchase, was draped with shawls and mantillas. Smaller tables ranged along the front windows held boxes of ribbons, lace, feathers, and rhinestones. Extravagantly decorated hats and bonnets perched on the stands that were placed on every free surface in the store. I hung back near the windows and watched as the bevy of well-dressed ladies of all ages consulted with the shop girls over lengths of silk, fingered through the boxes of embellishments, and modeled the hats for one another. After what seemed to be an hour but was probably just three minutes, Juliette came to the door. I stepped forward.

  “Juliette! Is it you?”

  Cornflower blue eyes looked at me blankly. She did not recognize me, but now, upon seeing her, I remembered her well. Her heart-shaped face and delicate features were similar to a porcelain figure of a comely dancing lady I had admired in a glass cabinet on one of the rare visits we children had been allowed to make to our father’s house.

  “It’s Paul Gastebois. Aimée’s brother. We met at Saint-Eustache a few months ago.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” she said. She did not return my smile.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I am well, monsieur,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Are you still with the mistress in, where was it—the rue de la Tixéranderie?”

  “No, monsieur. No longer.” Her eyes darted to the door.

  “I was with Aimée on Sunday,” I said. “She mentioned that she no longer sees you in church.”

  She stared at me, saying nothing. A guarded look came into her eyes.

  “Oh, I have moved,” she said. “I am too far from Saint-Eustache, so I no longer go there.”

  “I’ll tell Aimée that,” I said.

  “How is she?” Juliette asked.

  “Very well. She’s enjoying her work with Madame Garsault. But she misses seeing you, I know. She was worried about you.”

  “Please thank her for me,” she said, her voice small and tight. “Please—tell her that I am well. There is no need for her to worry.”

  I pulled a piece of paper and my pencil stub out of my pocket. “Why don’t you give me your new address?” I asked. “I could bring her over to see you one Sunday.”

  She inhaled sharply. “No, I cannot. No, that wouldn’t be possible.”

  Two ladies, one carrying a large hatbox, came from the back of the shop. The empty-handed one opened the door and held it while her companion stepped outside. Juliette saw her chance. “Please monsieur, I must go,” she said. She scurried out the open door. I looked out the window and watched her flee across the garden.

  “May I help you find something, monsieur?” I turned to see a shop girl. She wore a modest dress of fine gray silk a shade lighter than the color on the walls, with a neat white cap set upon her auburn hair. Green eyes, a button nose, and a warm smile completed the attractive package. “A gift for your wife, perhaps?” she added.

  “No, no. I have no wife,” I said.

  Did I imagine that brightening in her eyes?

  “A special girlfriend, then?” she asked.

  “No, no girlfriend either,” I said. She showed her small white teeth. I felt like a bone just found by a dog that had been missing it. I looked down and saw a box of ribbons.

  “Perhaps something for my sister,” I said. “One of these ribbons.”

  She smiled again. “What a kind brother. Your sister is very lucky. What color does she favor?”

  I searched my memory, but found nothing in it. Suddenly I could not remember a single dress my sister had worn in the sixteen years I’d known her.

  “Uh...blue. Yes, she likes blue,” I said.

  She pulled a ribbon from the box. “This is a lovely shade of blue, and the velvet will go with anything your sister might wear this season,” she said.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  I followed her to the counter and pulled out some coins. I smiled at her as she wrapped the ribbon in a small piece of paper and tied a neat bow around the package.

  “Could you possibly tell me—” I began. I shook my head. “No, no, I shouldn’t bother you.”

  “What is it, monsieur? I’d be glad to help you with anything, if I am able.”

  “That girl who ran out just a few minutes ago—I think I have met her before, but I’m not certain.”

  “The small blonde?”

  “Yes, that one. Does she come in often?”

  The shop girl laughed. “She’s been in here almost every Sunday for the last year. Now that I think of it, this is the first time I’ve seen her here on a weekday.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “We get a lot of girls who just come to look. They can’t afford to buy anything. She’s one of those. This is the first time that I know of that she’s ever made a purchase.”

  She handed me the package. I tucked it into my cloak pocket and handed her the coins. She counted them, placed them in a box, and leaned close to me.

  “That girl seemed to be better dressed today than I’ve ever seen her,” she said. “The cloak she had on costs more than I make in a year.”

  Business in Les Halles was slow at this hour. Everyone—the vendors and their customers; the wagon drivers and porters; even the pigs, chickens, and goats that roamed the large market area—seemed to be at dinner. Outside the grain market, under the watchful eyes of armed guards, porters took advantage of the sparseness of the crowds to transfer sacks of flour from wagons into the large domed building.

  It was clear from my encounter with Juliette that she did not want to see Aimée, I thought as I turned into the rue de Fromagerie. It was evident that the girl had come into some money. I hadn’t warmed to her ex-mistress, but the facts pointed to the truth of her story, that Juliette had stolen from her. I didn’t want to tell my sister that her friend was a thief, though. I wanted to protect her innocence for as long as I was able. I would just tell her that I happened to run into Juliette, and that she is well, but is unable to see old friends anymore. Aimée would be hurt, but I hoped that she would soon make new friends and forget about Juliette.

  I glanced into the cheese stalls as I walked down the street, but did not see my client, so I headed to the rue de la Cossonnerie. I quickly located the tavern where Montigny had told me he dined every day, and entered. The room was very warm, filled with market workers eating at long trestle tables. The sole waitress, a plump young brunette, waved me to an empty spot as she went by on her way
to delivering plates.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” I heard her tell a man at a nearby table. “Looking is free, now, but if you want to touch, you’ll have to take me dancing at the Vauxhall!” The man and his co-workers laughed.

  I saw my client sitting at a table across the room. When I caught his eye, he gathered up his plate and tumbler, excused himself, and joined me near the door. A large group of customers were departing, so we took seats at their empty table.

  “What is it?” Montigny asked. “Have you found Gaspard’s murderer?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I have a few questions for you, though. But first, how are you?”

  The old man’s voice caught. “I’m getting over the shock, but it is still hard for me. Gaspard was a good friend.”

  The waitress came by. I pointed at Montigny’s plate. “I’ll have that,” I said.

  “One special,” she said, pulling a fork, a knife and a spoon out of her pocket and putting them on the table. “That comes with wine. Do you want brandy in it?”

  “No.”

  She hurried off to put in my order.

  I turned back to Montigny. “I wanted to report to you about what I’ve learned,” I said. “I’ve gotten hold of some pamphlets Bricon was selling on the bridge.”

  “Gaspard sold lots of things—songs, pamphlets. Many peddlers do. What do these pamphlets have to do with his murder?”

  “These were political pamphlets. Illegal ones.”

  Montigny cut a piece of meat, popped it in his mouth, and chewed it. He nodded for me to continue.

  “I’ve spoken to people involved in the illegal publishing world,” I said. “Someone told me Bricon may have had a disagreement with the publisher of one specific pamphlet. I’m trying to find the man.”

  My client continued to chew, staring at me with a quizzical expression on his face. The waitress placed a bowl of broth and a very small piece of bread on the table in front of me.

  “Henriette!” a man at a table across the tavern shouted. “We want to order! We do not have all day to sit here!”