The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  “So you agreed.”

  “Yes.” She looked away. “I didn’t know what else I could do. The reporter was very kind. He asked a lot of questions. He was very angry when I told him that I was only fourteen.”

  “How did you end up here?” I asked.

  “When the reporter was finished asking questions, the foreign man took me downstairs to a carriage and pushed me inside. He threw a bag of coins on the floor and slammed the door. The coachman asked me where I wanted to go. I didn’t know. I knew I couldn’t go back to Madame Rolle. I thought of Agathe, so I told him to take me to the rue de la Tixéranderie.”

  “But I just spoke to Agathe. She told me she didn’t know where you were.”

  “I never saw her. The driver left me in the street outside the shop. I saw Madame Dupré come around the corner, so I ran to hide. I was afraid she might see me and try to sell me to another madam, one worse than Madame Rolle.”

  She looked around the cloister. “I didn’t know where to go, so I came here. It’s always been my secret place. One of the monks found me and gave me this cloak. He put something on my face to heal it, and has brought me food.”

  “What will you do now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. She pulled a bag of coins from her dress pocket. “I have the money that the foreign man gave me. But I don’t know if it is enough for a carriage trip home.” She started to cry again. “But even if I could afford to go there, my mother would probably not take me in. Not after what my stepfather did to me before I ran off to come here to Paris.”

  “I know people in the police department,” I said. “They run a spinning workshop here in the city for girls like you with no place to go. The girls all live in a dormitory there. I could talk to some people to see if they could find a place for you.”

  She suddenly was very still. Her eyes narrowed. She wiped her tears with my handkerchief and then shoved it at me. “Spinning? You think I should spend the rest of my life spinning wool?” She shook the bag of coins in my face. “Look at the money that man gave me! He told me I was beautiful. I can earn much more selling myself than in a spinning workshop.”

  “But Juliette—”

  “No, I’ll stay here until my bruises heal. Then I’ll find my own way.”

  “You can’t stay here,” I said. “It is getting colder every day.” I rose and tried to lift her up. “Please, Juliette, come with me now. I can at least find you someplace warm and safe to stay while we decide what you will do.”

  She thrust my arm aside. “No! Leave me alone! I don’t want your help!”

  I reached for her hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed.

  “Please, Juliette, let me help you.”

  She tucked the bag of coins into her pocket and wrapped herself in the cloak. “That man, the foreign one, he was rough with me,” she muttered. “But he liked me, I am sure. He thought I was beautiful. And he had plenty of money. When I am better, I will look for him. He was very handsome. Maybe he would find me a small room, someplace nice, and come to visit me—”

  “No, no, Juliette. That is not the right way. That man brutalized you.”

  She pulled herself up and glared at me. “Go away and leave me alone,” she hissed. “I can take care of myself. And tell Aimée I don’t ever want to hear her name again. Tell her to mind her own business.”

  “Please, Juliette, you don’t know what you are saying,” I said.

  “Go away!”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave. But if you change your mind, come to Lacombe’s wineshop in the rue Saint-Jacques. You can ask anyone there—they’ll tell you where to find me.”

  “Let me be!” she shrieked. I winced as a gob of spit hit my cheek.

  I backed away and then slowly started down the walkway. As I neared the door of the cloister, I heard her burst into tears.

  • •

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I had little appetite after my encounter with Juliette, so I abandoned my plan to dine at my favorite tavern and proceeded instead toward Duval’s lodgings in the rue du Petit-Musc. Juliette’s assailant had to have been the German-speaking man I had observed following Anton Cobenzl the last few weeks, I thought. He had been stalking the young Austrian, perhaps seeking a way to frame him for a crime. But for what greater purpose? That I did not understand. I paid little attention to politics, and even less to foreign affairs, but I had lived enough years in this world to know that there were men who would casually destroy the lives of girls like Juliette for power, money, or some other advantage I could not fathom.

  As I approached the rue Saint-Antoine, I forced myself to put my questions about Juliette and Cobenzl aside and to concentrate on the task at hand. I must have my wits about me if I were to sneak into the police inspector’s lodgings, look for evidence against him, and leave without being seen.

  The rue du Petit-Musc sat in the shadow of the Bastille fortress, on a steep hill that led down to the river. I walked down the street and found Duval’s building on the right side, across from the gate to the garden of the abandoned convent of the Célestins. The apartments were set off the street down a dark, covered passageway. I looked up and down the street and then, seeing no one else about, ducked down the passage. I found myself in a small neat courtyard. The building was a typical Parisian four-story apartment house, with an alley on its right side, which I guessed led to a back garden that could be used by the tenants. The windows on the ground floor were all dark and the building was silent. Good, I thought. There was no landlady sitting about waiting to interrogate strange visitors.

  The entrance was unlocked. I entered and quietly closed the door behind me, and then climbed two flights of stairs to the second floor. Duval must be spending some of his ill-gotten gains on his rent, I thought. The second floor was the ideal location in every apartment building, away from the noise and dust of the road, but not so high that bringing wood and water upstairs became too arduous and expensive. Rents on this floor were always higher than anywhere else in a building.

  I found Duval’s rooms at the end of a short corridor. I pulled out the key Madame Janaret had given me, looked around to ensure that I was alone, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the door. The lodgings consisted of two rooms—a bedroom in the back and a sitting room here in the front. On my right sat a large stove, with two padded armchairs placed in front. Across the room, under two tall windows, was a large table covered with papers. I locked the door behind me and went to the table. I glanced out the left-hand window. An old man stood next to the low wall of the convent across the street, rummaging through a large bag. Duval had a pleasant view of the monks’ garden, which, although it had been left untended for several years since the convent had disbanded, and was now a mess of tangled brambles, was a far more enjoyable sight than the Bastille prison, which dwarfed the apartments at the top of the street.

  I riffled through the papers on the desk. There were several directives from the lieutenant of police, alerting his inspectors to new policies and procedures; a copy of the etching of Mademoiselle Violette that I had seen all over the city; several pamphlets about political issues; and, at the very bottom of a pile of blank sheets of paper, a note written in a cramped, spidery hand, summoning Inspector Duval to a meeting at the tavern in the rue de la Cossonnerie last Friday evening to discuss the matter of Geneviève Rivière. The note was signed by my dead client, Hubert Montigny.

  What had my client been up to? Had he planned to take over Bricon’s scheme to blackmail Duval? What did Geneviève Rivière have to do with an old man like Montigny? A picture of what might have happened on Friday night formed in my mind. Duval must have discovered where Montigny lived, and instead of obeying the summons to the tavern, had gone to the old man’s lodgings early, surprised him, and cut his throat.

  I froze as a knock sounded at the door.

  “Monsieur Duval? Are you there?” a woman called. She knocked again.

  My heart
pounded as I waited and prayed that it was not the landlady with a key. I tiptoed to the door to the bedroom and glanced in, hoping to find a place to hide, but saw nothing but a large bed, two small side tables, and an armoire that would not accommodate me. I held my breath and willed her to go away.

  After what seemed an eternity, the knocking ceased. I waited for a minute to be certain the woman had left and then returned to the desk. I folded the letter from Montigny, slipped it into my cloak pocket, and then continued my search of the room. A small bookshelf held several volumes on military history and battle strategy, a pair of brass flashguards, and an old powder horn. A rosewood-handled bayonet, about a foot and a half in length, lay on top of the bookcase. I pulled the weapon out of its heavy leather sheath. Had Duval used this to kill Montigny? I examined the blade. There were no telltale stains or blood marks, but I hadn’t expected to find any. Duval had spent most of his career as a soldier and had been trained to keep his weapon clean.

  Keeping my footsteps light in case the woman I had heard was in the rooms directly below, I hurried into the bedroom. I ran my hands under the mattress on the bed, but found nothing. I looked underneath the bed itself, but encountered only dust. I opened the doors of the armoire and, stretching on my toes, ran my hands over the top shelf, which was empty. Duval had a larger wardrobe than my own: three dress coats with matching waistcoats and breeches, four linen shirts, and a thicken woolen cloak hung on the clothes pole. I turned every pocket inside out. Nothing. Two pairs of boots and two pairs of dress shoes sat on the bottom shelf. I turned them upside down and shook them, but nothing fell out. I knelt and opened each of the four small drawers at the very bottom of the armoire, but found only four sets of handkerchiefs, ten pairs of stockings, two linen neck stocks, and three silk cravats.

  I sat back and blew out my cheeks in frustration. Except for the note from Montigny, there was nothing here to incriminate Duval. I knew that the authorities would not accept the note as proof that the inspector had murdered the old man. The police of Paris would protect their own unless I could present them with unimpeachable evidence. I stared at the base of the armoire. A long panel of wood connected the front legs of the cabinet. It had been carved with rosettes along its surface. What was that slight ridge in the middle? I leaned down and studied the panel, moving my fingers over the ridge. To its right, I located another ridge. Yes, I was certain. There was something inside.

  I took my pocket knife from my cloak and gently pried out the false panel. A small compartment had been built into the base. I reached in and pulled out a small leather-bound journal. I opened it.

  My excitement grew as I turned the pages. Duval had kept a scrupulous record of his illegal activities. The pages listed the titles of pamphlets and books; and included notes about from whom Duval had seized them, to whom he had given them to resell, and the amount of monies he had made from each sale. Duval’s activity had been extensive. His lists took up most of the pages in the volume.

  I had him now. Somehow I would see that this journal ended up in the hands of the lieutenant of police. I had found nothing to prove that Duval had murdered my client and Bricon, but at least I could see him thrown into the Bastille for the rest of his life for betraying the trust placed in him. I leaned over and replaced the false front on the armoire. I stood and took one last look around, and then, seeing nothing else of interest to me, tucked the journal into my cloak pocket and unlocked the door. I opened it a crack, peered out, and satisfied that no one was in the hall, went out and locked it behind me. I crept down the stairs, pushed open the front door, and stepped into the courtyard. A light snow was beginning to fall.

  As I hurried to the passageway, I had the eerie sensation of eyes upon me. I stopped and peered back at the windows. There was no telltale movement of a curtain or any other indication that someone was watching. I took a step toward the street. At that moment I heard a sound—a shuffling, coming from the right end of the building. The shuffling grew louder. An old man, perhaps the caretaker, coming out of the garden to check on the front door? I stepped back into the shadows of the passageway. A large, mangy hound emerged from the garden alley. He sniffed around the courtyard, stopping to examine my scent by the door.

  I exhaled as noiselessly as I could, so as not to attract his attention, and then turned and hurried through the passageway to the street.

  • •

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Stay out of it, that’s my advice.”

  Théophile Houssemaine swirled the last bit of wine in his tumbler. After I had returned from the rue du Petit-Musc, I had spent some time poring over Duval’s journal. I then went around the corner and had a light supper at a café. As I returned to Lacombe’s wineshop, I had met the bookseller coming in the door. I’d asked if I could speak to him, and after we were settled in a corner with some wine, I’d told him about Juliette.

  “I’ve read her accusations against the Austrian in the pamphlet,” my neighbor said. “She’s being used as a pawn. Trust me, Paul. You don’t want to get involved in this.”

  “I already feel that I am involved,” I said. “I know that an innocent man has been falsely accused and that a young girl’s life is probably ruined. All over a lie. I cannot comprehend the reason for it all.”

  “You told me the man who beat Juliette had been following the Austrian diplomat for a few weeks,” Houssemaine said. “And Juliette’s madam told you a Prussian paid for the girls to go to the party. It is likely that this man is an agent of the Prussian government, here to discredit Austria and the queen.”

  “I don’t understand why,” I said.

  Houssemaine put down his drink. “It all begins with the Empress of Russia. She is greedy for land that belongs to the Ottomans. She has convinced the queen’s brother, Joseph, the Emperor of Austria, to ally with her in a war against the Ottomans. France has been a long-time ally of the Ottomans, and most people in France are sympathetic to their current plight. But Joseph wants France to join his alliance with Russia. He and his ambassador are using the queen to lobby the king to recall our advisers from Constantinople and end the alliance.”

  “But where does Prussia fit into all this?” I asked.

  “It’s all a complex game of chess, my friend,” Houssemaine explained. “Much more strategic than the simple trictrac games we play. The map of Europe is the game board and each country is a piece on the board. Prussia has an alliance of its own—with the Dutch and the English.”

  “So the two alliances balance out each other?” I asked.

  “Exactly!”

  I took a mouthful of wine. This was all ridiculous to me. What did all this jockeying between rival nations have to do with everyday life?

  “Now Prussia—the Kaiser has his eye on his neighbor to the east, Poland.”

  “Poland! How many countries are involved in all this?”

  “Here, let me draw you a map.” He pulled out a stubby pencil and a worn piece of paper from his satchel and began to draw. “Here is Poland, right in the middle of things. Its neighbors are Prussia to the west, Russia to the east, and both Austria and the Ottomans to the south.”

  I peered at the drawing and nodded.

  “As I told you before, Russia and Austria are warring with the Ottomans in order to acquire some of their lands. But while the two allies are occupied with their war, they must also keep an eye on Prussia, who might try to invade Poland while the others are distracted in the south. The last thing Russia wants is to have Prussia directly next door, so Poland is a good buffer country for them. Austria and Prussia have been arguing over their shared border near Bohemia for years now.”

  “I think I understand all that,” I said. “But what about France? Where do we fit in?”

  “The Austrians want the king to do several things,” Houssemaine said. “First, they would like him to join their alliance with Russia and commit to defending Poland if the Prussians should invade it.”

  “Ah, I see,” I said. “So we
would have to fight to protect the buffer Austria and Russia now have against Prussia.”

  My neighbor beamed at me as if he were a professor at the Sorbonne and I was his prized pupil. “Yes. The Austrians also want us to use our influence with the Ottomans to convince them to agree to a mediated end to the war. Joseph isn’t interested in fighting a long war primarily for Russia’s benefit. If France could bring the war to an end, Austria and Russia would probably get the land that they want without paying for a long, expensive war.”

  “This is becoming too complicated.”

  Houssemaine laughed. “There are men in the governments of Europe who have spent their entire careers just thinking about these kinds of maneuvers.”

  “I’ll stick to confidential inquiries,” I said. “But back to Juliette—”

  “Ah, yes, the poor girl. As I said before, there are many agents of the Austrian government here in Paris, trying to influence the king to do what Joseph wants. And wherever Austrians go, Prussians follow, aiming to stir up trouble. They’ll do anything to turn public opinion here in France against Austria. Many of the pamphlets that are written against the queen—the ones that argue that she acts in the interest of her homeland and not that of France—are paid for by the Prussian government.”

  “I see now,” I said. “The Prussians send someone to stalk a young Austrian diplomat. The diplomat is seen at parties in fine houses around Paris. The Prussian agent pays for a group of prostitutes to go a party, so that people will notice that the Austrian and the girls are at the same place. Then he solicits one of the girls, rapes and beats her, and then pays her to falsely accuse the Austrian. The public is outraged at an attack on an underage girl, even if she is a prostitute, so turns against Austria even more. So Austria doesn’t get the alliance with France it wants.”