The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  “Very good,” Houssemaine said. “You are a quick learner.”

  “Perhaps now,” I said. “But I’ll probably forget everything on that map by tomorrow morning.”

  We laughed.

  “I’m still bothered by it all,” I said, rolling my tumbler in my hands. “Juliette’s story is a lie. She felt forced to go along with the Prussian after he attacked her. Young Cobenzl is innocent.”

  “A lie, yes,” Houssemaine said. “But a small one compared to some of the lies kings and emperors tell one another and their own people. Do not worry about Cobenzl. His aristocratic family will find him a lucrative sinecure in the government in Vienna. He’ll marry well and live a comfortable life, wanting for nothing.”

  “But I still—”

  “You must look out for yourself, Paul. Paris is swarming with foreign agents right now. These people would destroy you and your family, perhaps even kill you, if it suited their purposes. Please, I beg of you. Just forget about Juliette.”

  A sudden weariness flooded through me. “But the girl is an innocent victim here also,” I said. “She has no wealthy family to turn to.”

  “You did what you could for her,” Houssemaine said. “You offered to help her find a job and she refused you. What is it you think you must do for her?”

  “I don’t know. But she is so young. Maybe I’ll go back to the cloister in a day or two to try to convince her to come with me to the spinning workshop.” I put down my tumbler. “But the nights are so cold, and she seemed so frail. I worry about her.”

  “She has money, you said. She won’t starve, and if she wants, she can probably afford a cheap room somewhere in the city. Even if you were to return and find her still at the cloister, I doubt she would allow you to help her.”

  I stared down at the table.

  “What will become of her, do you think?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “No madam will take her into a brothel now, especially if she is scarred from the beating. She’ll probably walk the streets, selling herself in cheap rooming houses and alleyways.”

  I shuddered.

  “She’s just one of many, Paul,” Houssemaine said. “There are thousands of girls in Paris in such dire straits.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know that. I am not naïve. But still, I hate it.”

  “Take me to her right now.” My sister, hands on her hips, glared at me.

  “I cannot, Aimée,” I said. “You know that. I’m afraid we must leave Juliette alone.”

  It was Saturday morning. After my lesson in international politics the night before, Houssemaine had returned to his rooms over his shop and I had climbed the stairs to my own bed. I’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what to tell my sister about her friend. By daybreak, I’d determined to simply tell her the truth.

  I’d tended to my bird and then carefully picked my way to Madame Garsault’s shop through a thin layer of snow that had fallen overnight. Aimée had been surprised to see me. Madame had left an hour before to visit a client’s home for a fitting, and my sister had been putting on her cloak, about to go out on errands for her mistress. I’d sat her down and gently told her about Juliette from the beginning, although I omitted the details of the rape and beating and the twisted intrigue Houssemaine had described to me last night. I’d ended my tale with my discovery of Juliette in the cloister in the rue des Billettes. To my surprise, my baby sister knew all about prostitutes and brothels.

  “You treat me like I’m a child,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before? You could have taken me to the cloister. I’m sure I could have convinced her to let us help her.”

  “Chérie, there is nothing we can do for her. Believe me, I tried to convince her to come with me. I offered to help her find a job in the spinning workshop. She told me to go away and leave her alone.”

  “Maybe she is still there,” Aimée said. “I’ll go with you and talk sense into her.” She went to the cupboard and removed a large bag. “Why, she could come work here. I’m sure Madame would be glad to have the extra help. We are so busy these days.”

  “Aimée, you know that Madame is not allowed to take additional workers without apprenticing them. She could be fined if the guild found out.”

  My sister was not to be dissuaded. “We could use another apprentice here. Madame’s work has become very popular among the merchants’ wives in the neighborhood.”

  “No, chérie,” I said. “It’s impossible.”

  She blew out her cheeks. “I can’t believe that people can be so evil,” she cried. “I hate it!” She threw the bag on the floor.

  I took her in my arms. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry this happened to your friend.”

  She pulled away from me, took a long breath, and buttoned her cloak. “Thank you for coming to tell me,” she said. She picked up the bag, selected a pair of scissors from the worktable, and put it in the bag. “Now, I’d better go do my errands. Madame will be looking for her fabric when she returns.”

  We stepped out of the shop. I held the bag while Aimée locked the door.

  “Which way are you going?” I asked. “I’ll walk with you a bit.”

  “Just around the corner. First to pick up some thread, and then a bolt of fabric. Then I have to have Madame’s scissors sharpened.”

  We walked to the end of the rue Plâtrière and turned right onto the rue Montmartre. After we had walked a block south, Aimée stopped. “I have to go down here,” she said.

  “All right. I will see you tomorrow.” I took her hand and kissed it. “Be careful,” I murmured.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m not as young and innocent as you’d like to think.”

  “You’d better be,” I growled, baring my teeth.

  She smiled. “Bring some money tomorrow,” she said. “We can go back to the Palais Royal. Now that I know that you are brave enough to enter the fashion merchant’s shop, you can buy me another ribbon. And then maybe some bonbons.”

  I laughed and waved her off. She shifted her bag on her arm and hurried down the street. I stood watching until I saw her disappear into a shop.

  I sighed with relief, surprised and proud about how well my sister had taken the news about her friend. Perhaps Aimée was right. She was a young woman now, and much as I did not want to, I had to stop thinking of her as a child.

  As I turned to head back to my lodgings, I felt a tickle of apprehension down my neck. I stopped and looked around to see if anyone was watching me. The streets were empty.

  At the end of the rue Montmartre, the large stained glass windows and gothic buttresses of Saint-Eustache Church reared above the street. I crossed into the rue de la Fromagerie, where my dead client had worked. Since I had found the note from Montigny in Duval’s rooms yesterday, I had become convinced that the police inspector had obeyed its summons and had murdered my client. But I knew that the note was not enough evidence to convince the police to arrest Duval. As I had decided yesterday, I might not be able to prove that Duval had murdered my client, but I could at least see that the lieutenant of police learned of his employee’s other crimes. But how should I proceed?

  “Careful there!” The driver of a large wagon loaded with hay shouted as I turned into the rue Saint-Denis. I stepped back to let him pass. He gave me a friendly wave.

  My chances of gaining an audience with the lieutenant were slim, I knew. And I did not want to have to explain how I had come into possession of Duval’s journal—to admit to having stolen it after Pauline Janaret had given me the key to the inspector’s lodgings. No, I would have to find a way to have the journal delivered to police headquarters anonymously, perhaps accompanied by Montigny’s letter and a brief report—unsigned of course—setting out my suspicions. I sighed. That was the best I could do given the circumstances. I would have to trust that the lieutenant would act on my evidence.

  Across the Île de la Cité and on the Pont Saint-Michel, shopkeepers and householders were sweeping the s
now from the fronts of their establishments and buildings. Once I had pressed my way through the Saturday crowds on the bridge, I turned down the rue de la Huchette and hastened to the wineshop, impatient to begin writing my report to the lieutenant of police.

  • •

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Ah, there you are,” my landlord said as I entered the shop. “Someone’s been waiting for you for an hour. He wouldn’t say what he wanted.” He gestured toward the fireplace, where a small boy sat on the hearth, a scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

  “Perhaps a new client?” Lacombe grinned.

  I went to the boy and held out my hand. “I’m Paul Gastebois. Were you looking for me?”

  He jumped to his feet. He was a small child, reaching just to my waist, with blond hair curled about his face, large green eyes, and apple cheeks. He wore patched gray trousers and a well-worn aquamarine colored jacket. His head was topped by a brown velvet cap that was at least a size too big for him. He pushed the cap off his forehead and shook my hand.

  “I’ve come for Dédé, monsieur,” he said. He shoved the paper at me. I unfolded it. It was the ad I had placed in the Affiches de Paris. “My father saw this in the paper.”

  “I see,” I said. “You are the owner of the bird. Well, you’d better come upstairs, then.”

  He pushed the cap off his forehead again and followed me up the stairs.

  What is your name?” I asked.

  “André, monsieur.”

  “And where do you live, André?”

  “In the rue des Anglois, monsieur.”

  Just a block behind the rue Saint-Jacques. Like most Parisians, the little bird had stayed close to his own neighborhood. I unlocked the door to my room and pushed it open.

  “Dédé! It is you!” The child ran to the cage. To my astonishment, the bird hopped up and down in the cage, and then began to sing.

  “So he does know how to sing,” I said. “He wouldn’t sing for me.”

  “’It is raining, raining, shepherdess,’” the boy sang in a high voice. The bird chirped along with the tune.

  “He is usually very quiet,” André said. “I had just started teaching him that song when he became lost. He only knows that one line.”

  “Still, he’s a fine companion, singing or not,” I said, smiling.

  “That’s a very large cage you have him in, monsieur. May I take him out?”

  “Of course.” I opened the cage door and the bird flew out, landing on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Well, I am convinced that you are his proper owner,” I said. “He recognizes you. Now, how will you get him home?”

  “Oh, he likes to ride on my shoulder. It is only around the corner from here.”

  “But it is so cold outside. Will he be all right?” I asked.

  The child nodded solemnly. “Yes, monsieur. I’ll walk as fast as I can. He’ll be fine.”

  I gestured at the cage. “Would you like to take this with you? I have no need for it anymore.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Thank you, monsieur, I would! I can tell that Dédé likes it.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. “My father told me to give these to you, monsieur, to thank you for taking the trouble to place the advertisement.” He pushed the cap off his forehead with his other hand.

  I looked at his patched trousers and worn jacket. “Why don’t you give those back to your father?” I said. “Tell him it was my pleasure to see you reunited with Dédé.”

  “Thank you, then, monsieur,” he said. He lifted the cage and backed out of the room, the bird perched on his shoulder.

  “Can you carry that all the way home?” I called as he lugged the cage down the stairs. “I could help you.”

  “Oh, no thank you, monsieur. My brother is outside waiting. He’ll help me. Thank you again!” As he pulled the cage down the stairs, Dédé sang his one-line song.

  I went back into my room and closed the door. I took a few sheets of paper, a quill, and my inkwell out of my cupboard and brought them over to the table. I sat in my chair, ready to write my report about Duval. I stared at the blank page, trying to marshal my thoughts. Where should I begin? I fidgeted. The room was too silent and empty. I shook my head. It was just a bird, I told myself. Just a bird. I turned to my work.

  A half hour later, after I had scratched out an outline of my accusations against Duval, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Charlotte.

  “There is a boy downstairs asking for you,” she said.

  “The small boy who came for the bird?” I asked. “Did he forget something?”

  “No, a message boy.”

  I closed my door and followed her down the stairs. At the door to the shop, a boy several years older than André stood gazing around the room.

  “You have something for me?” I asked.

  “Paul Gastebois?”

  I nodded. He handed me a message. I gave him a few coins. He grinned at me, tipped his cap, and left. I broke the seal on the message and unfolded it, reading as I climbed the stairs.

  Paul,

  I returned home late this morning to find Aimée gone. We had arranged that she would do a few errands and return to the shop promptly, so that I could cut a new bolt of fabric she was to fetch at the draper shop. When I reached home the shop was locked and dark. I waited an hour, and when she had still not returned, decided to send this messenger to you. I hope that my worry is for naught, and that she is with you, safe and well.

  Jacqueline Garsault

  I entered my room and threw the message onto the table. I grabbed my cloak from the cupboard, ran back down the stairs, and raced out of the shop into the street.

  “It is not like Aimée to be so irresponsible,” Madame Garsault said as she paced up and down her workshop, her face creased with worry.

  “I came by to speak to her this morning,” I said. “She was going out to do the errands. We parted over at the rue du Jour. But that was hours ago, about ten o’clock.”

  “All of her stops were in the neighborhood,” Madame said. “Unless there was an especially long wait at the knife grinder, she would have returned here before eleven. Do you have any idea where she might be?” She stopped and stared out the window.

  “I’ll go out to look for her,” I said. “Do you have a list of the shops she was stopping at? I’ll start with them and if I don’t learn anything of use, I’ll go farther afield.”

  She quickly scribbled a few names and addresses on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  “Try to remain calm, madame,” I said. “I am sure she is fine. She probably just met up with a friend and lost track of the time.”

  “I hope that is all,” she said, shaking her head. “You will let me know what you find, right away?”

  “Of course. If I don’t bring her back here, I will send a message to you before sunset, telling you what I’ve learned.”

  The first stop on Madame’s list was the mercer in the rue du Jour. I noticed a display of etchings of Geneviève Rivière in the window of Monsieur Grangé’s bookstore next door. The mercer’s shop was empty of customers when I entered and made my query.

  “Aimée? Yes, she was here this morning,” the cheery woman at the counter told me. “About ten o’clock, just after we opened. I gave her the thread Madame had requested.”

  “Did she speak to anyone else while she was here?” I asked.

  “No, she was the only customer in the shop. Most of the girls come in later on Saturdays.”

  “Did she mention where she was going next?”

  “No, monsieur, she didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  In the rue Coquillière, Monsieur Pelletier told me that Madame Garsault’s apprentice had come in a little after ten this morning to pick up the bolt of blue wool Madame had ordered last week. No, Monsieur could not say where the girl had gone afterwards; he was among the most popular drapers in Paris and was much too busy to pay attention to the apprentices who come in to pick up orders.

&n
bsp; The knife grinder in the rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs was more helpful than Monsieur Pelletier. “She was here at half past ten this morning,” he said as he looked up from his grinding wheel. “I remember because the fellow who sells pots and pans in the street had just walked by when she came in. He comes by at half past ten every day. I heard him whistle at her, and she was laughing. She’s a lovely young lady. Oh, she is your sister? You must be very proud of her. We chatted while I sharpened Madame Garsault’s scissors. Now that I think of it, she seemed a bit preoccupied this morning—not her usual self. No, she didn’t say where she was headed after here. I hope you find her, monsieur. Paris is not a safe place for a young girl out on her own.”

  On the chance that Aimée had taken advantage of some free time before Madame was to return to the workshop, I headed to the Palais Royal to ask if she had stopped in at any of her favorite shops. The harried clerk in the chocolate shop told me that no one fitting my description of Aimée had come by this morning. At the fashion merchant’s shop, I idly fingered through a basket of ribbons while I waited for a sales girl to become free. When one finally approached me, she told me that she couldn’t remember a girl with tawny-colored hair and brown eyes visiting the shop this morning, but since there were so many girls who came in every day to gawk at the wares, she could not be certain.

  I had one more stop to make before I allowed myself to give in to my growing worry. As I thought back to my conversation with my sister this morning, I realized that perhaps she had accepted Juliette’s fate too easily. I had been relieved that she had so quickly given up her demand that I take her to see her friend, and proud that she was mature enough to accept that we could do nothing to help Juliette. But perhaps I had been a fool. Aimée might have been trying to get me to leave, so that she would have extra time after her errands to go to the cloister in the rue des Billettes to see her friend. I hurried down the rue Saint-Honoré toward the Marais.

  The streets were filled with Parisians shopping and socializing in the bright sunshine. Last night’s snow had been swept to the sides of the streets, and wagons, coaches, and carts clogged the rue de la Verrerie. I pushed my way through a small crowd that had gathered to watch a trained monkey performing tricks. I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally turned into the rue des Billettes.