The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  “Are you from the police?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “I told the inspector everything I knew yesterday.”

  “No, madame, I—”

  “As I told him, I had no idea that Juliette was only fourteen. When I took her on, I was told that she was sixteen. I run a proper establishment here. My clients are from the highest levels of society. Had I known the girl was under legal age, I never would have let her in.” She stamped a small, satin-slippered foot. “And I know nothing about an Austrian diplomat!”

  I raised my palms in front of me to stop the flow of words. “Madame, if I may—I am not from the police.”

  “You aren’t? What is it you want then? My man told me you asked about Juliette. Are you another journalist?”

  “No, madame. My name is Paul Gastebois. I’m a confidential inquirer. My sister and Juliette were once friends. My sister has been worried about Juliette and asked me to find her. My investigation led me here. When I saw the pamphlet yesterday, I wanted to see if she needed help. Is she here?”

  She picked up a snuffbox from a small table and turned it in her hands. “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t seen her since she left with the other girls for the party in the rue de Grenelle on Sunday. The rest of the girls came back without her. I asked them where she was, but they wouldn’t tell me. I’d beat it out of them, but since Juliette has not returned, I am short-staffed. She was very popular with my clients. That fragile, angelic look she has appeals to many men. Now the other girls will have to try to take her place.”

  “May I speak with the girls she was with on Sunday?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Impossible. They are still resting. We receive clients in a few hours, and I cannot have the girls disturbed.”

  “Did any of them say anything at all that might give me an idea of where Juliette has gone?”

  “No, not a word,” she said. “It is all very strange. None of them were upset when they returned from the party. They all told me everything was fine. If that story that is out in the streets is true, that Juliette had been raped and beaten by that Austrian, the girls would have told me. I am like a mother to them.”

  “Are Juliette’s things still here?” I asked.

  “Yes, but there isn’t much,” she said. She placed the snuffbox on the table. “I’ve given her everything she has. Her clothes, her jewelry—it all really belongs to me.” She made a face. “I burned all of the clothes she had with her when she first came here.”

  “Were you aware that she had stolen from her mistress before she came here?” I asked.

  A cunning look came into her eyes. She raised an arched, severely plucked brow. “No, I was not. You’d have to talk to the mistress about that. Now, monsieur, if you will excuse me, I must finish my toilette and see to the girls.”

  I thanked her for her time. She led me out of the parlor to the front door. As I was about to leave, I stopped. “Perhaps you could answer one last question, please, madame?”

  “Yes? I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Could you tell me who hired the girls for the party last Sunday?”

  She paused and then nodded. “What harm could it do if I told you? Yes, I remember him well. He was a foreigner, very handsome, tall. He wore a military uniform of some sort. He spoke with a heavy accent.”

  My ears perked.

  “He told me he wanted to hire the girls as a surprise for his friend, the duc’s son, over at the Hôtel d’Estrées. He mentioned that they had met at the palace of Sans Souci, when the duc and his son visited Prussia last year.”

  My mind wrestled with the puzzle of Juliette, Anton Cobenzl, and the Prussian as I started the long walk out to Saint-Antoine to answer my brother’s summons. Was the foreign man who had hired Juliette and the other girls for the party at the Hôtel d’Estrées the same one I had seen watching Cobenzl?

  I took dinner in a tavern near the Bastille and then proceeded down the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine. Before I had reached Sainte-Marguerite Church, I had decided that I would visit Juliette’s old mistress again tomorrow morning. Perhaps she had heard something from the girl. Then I focused my thoughts on Marc-Étienne Duval and Simon Janaret. I was eager to find the bouquiniste waiting with my brother, ready to tell me everything he knew about Duval’s activities in the illegal pamphlet trade.

  But when I entered the church, my heart sank. Instead of the sullen bookseller, my brother sat in a pew next to a mousy, middle-aged woman.

  “Ah, Paul, you are here!” Bernard rose and embraced me.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” I said.

  “No, Madame arrived just a few minutes ago.” He beckoned to the woman. “Come, let us go in the back, where we may speak privately.”

  He ushered us into the small, cold room the priests used for robing. “Madame Janaret, this is my brother, Paul. Paul, this is Pauline Janaret, a parishioner here.” Bernard gestured us to a pair of wobbly chairs and settled himself cross-legged on the floor. “Go ahead, Pauline,” he said, nodding at the woman. “Tell him what you told me.”

  The woman glanced at me shyly. I smiled at her. “You are Simon’s wife?” I asked.

  “Yes, monsieur.” Her voice was low and breathy. “Simon told me about you, how you came to his stall. He told me you are related to Father Bernard.” She pulled a grubby handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Simon forbade me to speak with you, monsieur,” she said. “But I must. I cannot bear this situation anymore.” She wrung the handkerchief in her hands and glanced at Bernard.

  “Go ahead, Pauline,” my brother said gently. “Paul will not tell your husband you came to us.”

  I nodded. “Yes, anything you tell me will stay among the three of us here.”

  “It happened the other day, monsieur. Tuesday. Simon came home from the quai early. He told me that that horrible man, Duval, had threatened to kill him because he saw my husband talking to you.”

  Madame Janaret put her head in her hands and wept. “It is all my fault,” she moaned, looking up. “All my fault. I am the one who involved Simon with that evil man.”

  Bernard went over to her, knelt, and took her hand.

  “How is it you are acquainted with Duval?” I asked.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I used to work for him, cleaning his rooms in the rue du Petit-Musc. Simon does not make very much money selling books and pamphlets. We need my wages to survive. I started with Monsieur Duval about eight months ago, when he had just arrived in the city to take up his new position with the police. It wasn’t hard work. Monsieur Duval was never at home when I was there. When he hired me, he gave me a key and told me to let myself in. He warned me not to touch any books or papers I might see while I was cleaning.” She gave a small wry smile. “I told him that I was used to leaving books and papers alone. My husband was a bouquiniste on the quai des Augustins and I knew not to touch any of his wares.”

  She drew a slow breath. “After I had been working for him for about two months, he came home one day while I was there. He was very friendly and charming to me. He asked me about myself, about Simon, and whether we had any children. He told me he was very pleased with my work and that he wished to give me a small gift.”

  “What sort of gift?” I asked.

  “A watch, monsieur. It was not a fancy watch, it had no gold or jewels on it, but it was nicely made and quite attractive. He told me that it had belonged to his mother. I reminded him of her, he said, and he wished me to have it.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “Oh, yes, monsieur. I did. I knew that I could sell it and put food on our table for a few weeks.” Her hands started to tremble.

  “Go ahead, Pauline, tell him the rest,” Bernard said softly.

  “A week after Monsieur Duval gave me the watch, a police officer came to my house. He told me that I was under arrest for stealing the watch.” She wrung her hands. “Simon was at the quai, of course, and there was no one around to help me. Th
e policeman took me in a carriage to Monsieur Duval’s office in the Châtelet.”

  “You must have been terrified,” I said.

  She gulped. “Monsieur Duval accused me of stealing the watch. ‘But monsieur,’ I said, ‘you gave me the watch last week, as a gift. Don’t you remember?’” Her voice broke. “‘Why would I do that?’ he shouted at me. He called me a terrible name. ‘That watch belonged to my dead mother.’” Tears ran down her face.

  “What happened then?” I asked, handing her my clean handkerchief.

  She dabbed her eyes with it. “He told the officer who had brought me there to leave us alone. He said that I was in deep trouble. If he wished it, he could see me hanged for theft. But if I was willing to cooperate with him—”

  I stifled a sigh of disappointment. Here was yet another description of Duval’s cruelty. But nothing to help me prove that he was a murderer. “He forced himself on you?” I asked.

  “No, not that. That might have been better. At least it would have been over quickly, and Simon would never have had to know. No, he told me that he would forget all about the watch if I would convince my husband to sell books and pamphlets at his stall. He told me that I could assure Simon that he would have no trouble from the police.” She put my handkerchief on her lap and idly started to fold it. “I was so relieved, I assured him that I could get Simon to go along with him.”

  “Did he say anything else?” I asked.

  “He told me to tell Simon to expect a visit from him on the quai in a few days. Then he told me to send his key with Simon. My cleaning services were no longer needed.”

  “Vile man,” my brother muttered.

  “I spoke to Simon that night. He did not want to have anything to do with Duval. He screamed at me, calling me a stupid whore for taking the watch. He told me that the pamphlets Duval wanted him to sell were probably illegal, and that if he were caught, he could end up in the Bastille. I told him that Monsieur Duval had promised that Simon would not be arrested. He ranted a bit more, but in the end he relented. He had no choice, he said, with such a foolish wife. He’s been selling Duval’s books and pamphlets ever since. He gets nothing from them. Duval takes all the proceeds.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with my investigation,” I said gently.

  “As I told you, monsieur, Duval threatened Simon on Tuesday, after he saw you at the stall. He demanded to know what Simon had told you. When he came home early, I knew my husband was frightened by Duval’s threats. I decided we had had enough. Father Bernard says you are investigating Duval. I want to help you.”

  I frowned. “I still don’t understand. I’m sorry your husband was threatened because I was at the quai, but I don’t see how you can help me.”

  “It’s the key, monsieur. The key to Duval’s lodgings.”

  “But you said he took back the key.”

  “He did, monsieur. I gave it to Simon, who passed it on to Duval at the quai.” She handed me my handkerchief. “But my brother is a locksmith here in Saint-Antoine. When I began working for the inspector, I was afraid I would misplace the key. I asked my brother to make a copy. I still have it.”

  After I had tucked the key into my coat pocket and profusely thanked Madame Janaret, Bernard and I stood at the front entrance to the church, watching her trudge down the street.

  “She is a good woman,” my brother said. “Her husband doesn’t deserve her. I know the man—I’m sure he beat her soundly when she told him what Duval had demanded.”

  “I’m familiar with that sort,” I said. “They bow and scrape to other men, and then go home to bully their women.”

  “Do you believe Duval killed your song peddler?”

  “I don’t know. My client has been murdered also. I spoke to a witness who saw a man resembling Duval leave my client’s lodgings. But I need proof. If I’m lucky I’ll find something in Duval’s rooms.”

  We stood in awkward silence.

  “How is our sister?” Bernard finally asked.

  “I saw her on Sunday. She was ill, so I didn’t take her out. She wants me to bring her to see you when the weather is warmer.”

  Bernard smiled. “I’d like that. I miss seeing her.”

  “I had better go,” I said. “I have a long walk back to the city. Thank you for convincing Madame Janaret to speak with me.”

  “I’ll send a message if I learn of anything else,” he said.

  I studied him. “You are looking too thin,” I said. “Stop giving the beggars your share of the food.”

  He stiffened. “I do what I must,” he said. “Just as you do.”

  “I know,” I said. We looked at each other. Why must it always be like this between us? I wanted to ask. We were once the closest of friends. You were my protector and hero as we were growing up. I want that again. But I could not get the words out of my mouth. Instead, I gave him a quick embrace and walked out to the street. I lifted the latch of the gate and went through, then turned to close it.

  “Hey! Turnip!” Bernard called.

  I halted and looked over at him.

  “Yes, Esteemed Older Brother?” I asked.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will be,” I said. Then I hurried away, so that he would not see the grin on my face.

  • •

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Early that evening, I waited outside the hotel in the rue des Bons Enfants, ready should Anton Cobenzl be foolish enough to go out after the release of the pamphlet yesterday. After I had paced up and down the street for twenty minutes, I went into the lobby to learn if I had been wasting my time.

  The porter I had spoken to in the street yesterday sat at the desk.

  “Good evening, do you remember me?” I asked.

  “Good evening, monsieur. Of course I do. Are you back looking for the young Austrian?”

  “Yes. Have you seen him at all today?”

  He hesitated. “Let me give that some thought, monsieur. I’ve been here all afternoon. So many people have come by today.”

  Sighing inwardly, I pulled a coin out of my pocket and handed it over. I hoped I would never have to watch another diplomat who stayed at this hotel. It was an economical option in the city for its guests, but was turning out to be very expensive for me.

  The porter pocketed the coin and leaned toward me. “The gentleman checked out, monsieur,” he said in a low voice. “When I came in this afternoon for my shift, the morning clerk mentioned that at ten o’clock some foreigners came in and bundled the young Austrian off in a fine carriage.”

  He laughed wheezily. “Is he the one who they are saying attacked that young girl? His friends certainly got him out of here quickly. I’ll bet he is on his way back to Vienna right now.” He glanced at the door. “Oh, pardon me, monsieur. I see one of our guests coming in. I must get his key.”

  I thanked him and left the hotel.

  I yawned as I walked up the rue Saint-Honoré toward the Palais Royal. The day had been wearying, and I was relieved that I was not required to spend the cold night crouched somewhere for hours waiting for Cobenzl. It was clear that my assignment had come to an end. I would write a report for Favart over the weekend, submit it to him next week, and collect my final payment for the surveillance. But I still wanted to find out what had really happened between the Austrian and Juliette. I knew that the rumors would eventually reach Aimée, and I wanted to be able to tell her the truth about her friend. I resolved to return to the workshop in the rue de la Tixéranderie in the morning, to see if the women there had heard from Juliette. Then, since tomorrow was Friday, when Duval would be at police court all afternoon, I would use the key that Pauline Janaret had given me and search the inspector’s lodgings for evidence that he killed Montigny and perhaps Bricon.

  As I passed the Palais Royal and stepped into the rue Fromenteau, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Someone was watching me. I whirled around. The wide area in front of the gates to the duc d’Orléans’s palace was a
lmost empty—perhaps Parisians had finally tired of the cold and had decided to stay at home in front of their stoves and fireplaces. A couple dressed in fur-lined cloaks hurried toward the entrance to the Palais Royal, ignoring an old beggar who was slumped at the side of the gate. To my left, two lantern men idled outside the entrance to the Vauxhall, waiting for customers to emerge. A young man selling oysters huddled over a small table, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. I looked around one more time and shook my head. I was imagining things again.

  I walked down the street. When I reached the quai du Louvre, I turned and looked back. No one was behind me. I continued across the Pont Neuf, where only a few vendors had braved the elements to offer their wares to the occasional passersby. The local church bells sounded seven o’clock. When I reached the Left Bank, I hurried along the deserted quai des Augustins and into the rue de la Huchette, eager to get to the warmth and company of home.

  When I entered Madame Dupré’s seamstress shop the next morning, it was as if I had never left it eleven days ago. The graying mistress and her mousy assistant sat at the worktable in the dimly-lit room, hunched over their sewing. A wrapped bundle sat on the table. The noisy stove in the corner barely put out heat. I imagined what the shop had been like when Juliette had been here: the three women seated around the table, the young apprentice longing to escape from the cheerless room, the two older women resentful of her dreams and beauty.

  The mistress put down her work and rose. She was clad in the same fine wool dress and gilded watch she had worn the first time I was here. “So, you have returned, monsieur. Well? Have you found Juliette and my mother’s candlesticks?”

  “No madame,” I said. “In fact, I’ve come to ask if either of you has heard from Juliette.”

  Madame Dupré frowned. “Why would she come back here? After what she did to me, she knows better than to show her face here again.”