The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  ‘Thanks, Boss!’

  Victor was not very keen on skeletons and the half-dozen monstrous whales, with their ivory-coloured bones, populating the museum’s new gallery were scarcely reassuring. In contrast, the three central displays of stuffed mammals – pachyderms, antelopes and giraffes – looked like household pets. He lost his way among the collections of reptiles, birds and eggs on the upper floors, before finding himself at the display cases of insects which he hurried past, nauseated by the sight of a termitarium next to a giant wasps’ nest. He asked a warden where he might find Antoine du Houssoye and was directed to the anthropology gallery where he had already wandered for three quarters of an hour.

  It was not at all a pleasure to rediscover a display of the severed Berber heads, decapitated by the Turks with their traditional yagatan sword, and dried under the African sun, next to the squatting Peruvian mummies, their grinning skulls exposed. The plaster cast of the Venus Hottentot, that poor woman wrenched from her native Africa and exhibited in country fairs before suffering a miserable death in Paris, filled him with pity. A second warden, standing watch over a circular glass case displaying a prehistoric human jaw discovered near Abbeville by Jacques Boucher de Perthes, told him that Monsieur du Houssoye was probably in the large amphitheatre where the palaeontologist Albert Gaudry was lecturing.

  A crowd of students and lecturers was standing about, deep in discussion, at the entrance to the lecture hall.

  After moving from group to group, Victor finally approached a well-built man of about forty whose luxuriant head of hair and horse-shoe beard framed a face that had charm, although the features suggested a certain weakness. His nonchalant voice dominated all the others.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was told you would know … I’m looking for Monsieur Antoine du Houssoye.’

  The man looked at him curiously. ‘He’s not here yet. It’s not like him. Wait … Charles!’

  A young man came over. He looked almost out of place in this seat of learning, despite his very smart suit. His tanned complexion, clean-shaven chin, almost transparently blue eyes and long stride that was firm and fluid, but not entirely elegant, made him appear like a country bumpkin come to town.

  ‘Let me introduce Charles Dorsel, my cousin Antoine’s assistant. I’m Alexis Wallers, lecturer in geology. To whom do I have the honour?’

  ‘Victor Legris, bookseller, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères. Your cousin came to our shop. He wanted to speak to my associate, Kenji Mori. I thought perhaps it was about a collection for sale …’

  ‘I would be astonished if he were proposing to part with his books. What can have got into him? Charles?’

  ‘I don’t think he would do that, no. He would have told me.’

  ‘It’s strange that Antoine is so late. Although we live in the same house, we don’t keep the same hours. Normally Antoine is very punctual. Unless he had a meeting. What is it, Charles?’

  ‘Have you forgotten? He’s gone to see Professor Guéret at Meudon. He’s writing his memoirs for All Round the World,’ Charles replied, sounding irritated. ‘Here’s your chance, Alexis. Monsieur Legris is a bookseller. Didn’t you want to haggle over your books and buy some jewels with the proceeds?’

  ‘Haggle over! When will you learn to speak correctly? I was hoping to sell them for a modest sum.’

  Charles Dorsel stared at Alexis Wallers insolently, like an accused man certain of his innocence. He had a slight accent, which Victor could not place.

  ‘All right, sell them, but not for a modest sum,’ retorted Charles, winking at Victor. ‘Oh, look, Monsieur Legris,’ he exclaimed pointing out a bent old fellow with a black portfolio under his arm. ‘That’s Monsieur Lacassagne, a retired warden. He’s always on the lookout for J-B Pocquelin’s The Affected Ladies’ Jewels – you wouldn’t have that put by, would you?’

  ‘Well, nothing’s impossible,’ replied Victor, laughing. ‘I have a customer who is adamant that the author of Discourse on Method is not René Descartes, but someone called Cartesian.’

  ‘It takes all sorts,’ Alexis Wallers said. ‘Monsieur du Houssoye won’t be long. He’s taking a class in about an hour.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll come back later,’ Victor said, taking his leave.

  As soon as he reached Rue Cuvier, he changed his mind and went back in. Adopting a stupid expression, he grabbed one of the porters by the sleeve.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful watch, I would have kept it, but my neighbour tells me it belongs to Monsieur du Houssoye, so I must give it back to him.’

  ‘You can wait for him here. His lesson starts at three o’clock.’

  ‘Not today, apparently. He had to go home in the middle of Monsieur Gaudry’s lecture, because he was suffering from a migraine.’

  ‘Leave it there then,’ the usher said grumpily.

  ‘My dear fellow, what do you take me for? Not that I don’t trust you, but I feel I have a moral responsibility …’

  ‘And how do I know you aren’t just going to keep the ticker?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ cried Victor, raising his voice. ‘How dare you doubt the honesty of Guillaume Elzévir, of …’

  ‘All right, all right, don’t get on your high horse,’ grumbled the porter, going to look in a register. ‘He lives in Rue Charlot, number 28.’

  Victor fled – he had just spotted Alexis Wallers.

  Tasha heard the key rattling in the lock and hastily hid the letter. She knew it by heart; the paper was starting to tear along the folds with frequent handling. She stood in front of her easel pretending to be deep in concentration. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Tomorrow! Tomorrow she would be in his arms, after all these years!

  She felt Victor’s lips brush her hair and her neck, but dared not turn round in case she revealed her inner turmoil.

  ‘Darling, you’ll have to get changed; we’re going out for dinner. Are you painting Madame Pignot’s portrait? I didn’t know you’d asked her to pose for you.’

  Victor called this over his shoulder on his way to freshening up at the sink.

  He returned moments later with his face buried in a towel, and slipped his arm round her waist.

  ‘How do you fancy a trip to Brittany? The light is beautiful there. You’ll be able to paint outside.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  She left her sentence unfinished, feeling rather ashamed.

  ‘Victor, I have to take off for a few days. It’s an opportunity for me, an exhibition in Barbizon, and …’

  ‘How long have you known this?’

  ‘I’ve just found out.’

  ‘Can I come? I could take pictures of the countryside.’

  ‘But you have the bookshop.’

  He shook his head, tightening his embrace. ‘What do you mean? It’s not as if Barbizon were the other side of the world.’

  ‘Darling, you have your photography and you go off on your investigations on your own, and you think that’s all right … I’m the same way. Please don’t take it badly; it in no way affects my love for you.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, crestfallen. ‘I want you to know how much I respect you, but however hard I try I have nothing in common with the artists with whom you associate.’

  ‘That’s why it’s best if you don’t come.’

  He became sullen, like a child who has just been rapped over the knuckles, his face bearing the stubborn expression he wore when he didn’t get his own way. He watched Tasha, unable to resist the fascination her every move, each utterance, engendered in him. He could not look at her without experiencing a heart-rending need to possess her completely, as if he would never be whole again if she left him.

  Tasha’s resolution started to waver. For the first time she was struck by the fear that she might lose him.

  ‘I’ll only be away for three days,’ she murmured.

  They stood facing each other. She was on the point of telling him the truth, but he solved her dilemma by leaning over and kissing her
cheek.

  ‘Go and get dressed.’

  She smiled at him and he immediately felt reassured; his anxiety melted away.

  Monsieur Rivet, feeling relaxed after a good dinner, stopped by the door of the Église Saint-Eustache, crossed himself and whistled for his dog who was loitering around a lamp-post. He relished this hour of the evening when, after dining with his wife in the back room of his haberdashery, he became for a brief interval a free man. Milord and he would roam where their fancy took them. Some evenings they strolled past Les Halles and reached the Bourse du Commerce. Other times they wandered over to the Marais. Tonight, by common accord, they went up Rue de Turbigo. From there, they meandered up Rue de la Grande-Truanderie where it was said that in the reign of Philippe-Auguste, a desperate young woman5 betrayed in love had flung herself into Ariane’s well. Monsieur Rivet was fond of these old tragic stories and as Milord trotted ahead, snout to the wind in search of new scents, he imagined he was a hero of the Arabian nights.

  He found Milord sniffing the air vent of a cellar, and was about to cross the road when the dog burst into frantic barking. Intrigued, Monsieur Rivet turned back.

  Milord was half-hidden in the dusk, but his tail wagged feverishly as he barked.

  ‘What is it, dog? Have you found a cache of sausages?’

  Milord leapt in the air, turned several circles and let out a howl.

  Bending double, Monsieur Rivet tried to see down into the cellar. He made out a heap of crates and a disordered jumble nearby. Could it be? Yes, something was moving. Two rats were trotting around a pile of old rags, probably looking for food. A third rat appeared, then a fourth. Monsieur Rivet could see their sharp teeth glinting in the light of the street-lamp and shivered – they had certainly found something to feast on. He had read in Nature that each month rats gave birth to something like ten babies. He recalled how legend had it that the descendants of the young girl drowned in Ariane’s well were endowed with four paws and long moustaches, and that over the centuries they had multiplied and taken over the sewers.

  ‘Shut up, Milord. All that racket for some poor old rats!’

  It was then that he realised what the rats were tucking into with such relish. It was a leg in tattered black rags, attached to a body, of which only the tails of a frock coat were visible.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, 12 April

  ‘RECREATE the siege of Sebastopol in your own bedroom. Success guaranteed. A single coat of my miracle varnish applied to your bed frame and the bugs will drop dead before your very eyes! A real bargain at sixpence a bottle, Monsieur!’

  Victor dodged the flask of yellowish liquid the peddler in Rue de Bretagne was waving in his face, and walked into Le Marché des Enfants-Rouges, whose entrance was sandwiched between a butcher’s and a sausage shop.

  The grimy windows of the glass roof resting on broad, dark beams filtered out the gloomy morning light, giving Victor the impression of walking into his darkroom. The six storey workers’ blocks towering above made him feel as though he’d plunged into an abyss. The hustle and bustle of the market traders setting up their stalls intensified his discomfort. Wherever he looked, death stared back defiantly, in the form of bloody lamb carcasses, pig’s offal and veal lights, which a tripe butcher was busy blowing up with a pair of bellows.

  Feeling queasy, he sat on the edge of a crate, balancing his camera equipment on his knee. He had brought a hand-held camera that was solid but easy to carry and equipped with a dozen plates and an automatic action that would allow him to take several clear pictures in rapid succession.

  ‘Is Monsieur the photographer feeling a bit peckish? In need of a pick me up? Go on, have a snifter of absinthe. Only fifteen centimes – it won’t break the bank. The doughnut’s on the house.’

  He shook his head, avoiding the gaze of a large moustachioed lady who was browning sausages over a brazier as she spoke.

  ‘No need to run away, dearie; I’m not going to bite your head off. Lord, will you look at him. He’s turned white as a sheet!’

  Amid the crude guffaws of the regular customers, Victor made a dash for the exit, where the kindly face of a flower seller restored his faith in humanity. Unaware that the bag containing his film plates had fallen open, he tugged on the strap as he attempted to step over a pile of peelings in the middle of the tiny Rue des Oiseaux. There was an almighty crash, and pieces of wood and glass lay scattered on the cobbles. Victor just managed to stop a small pair of hands from picking them up.

  ‘Careful, you’ll cut yourself!’ he cried out to a skinny girl in a shapeless, ill-fitting dress. At the same time a man perched on a donkey cart called, ‘Vivi! Don’t cut your fingers!’ as he trundled down the street behind Victor.

  ‘That’s seven years’ bad luck if it’s a mirror!’ remarked the man as he jumped down off his cart.

  ‘It is only white glass,’ Victor replied with a smile that widened as he watched the little girl run her fingers over his camera obscura.

  ‘What a lovely magic lantern,’ she murmured. ‘Are you an illusionist, like Monsieur Méliès? I often walk past his theatre. They do matinées for children. I’d love to go!’

  ‘No, no, I only take photographs, Mademoiselle Vivi – my name is Victor Legris.’

  ‘Mine’s not Vivi, it’s Yvette.’

  ‘There she goes again getting on her high horse because her old Papa uses her nickname in front of strangers. Léonard Diélette, market stallholder.’

  Victor looked with interest at Léonard, whose features were almost obscured by his dark hair, moustache and beard.

  ‘Market stallholder?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur, market stallholder and proud of it. I’m done with traipsing up and down Paris all night with a basket on my back and a hook in my hand. I was a rag-and-bone man for many a year and I know what a hard life it can be! Why, I used to cover twelve miles a day searching for junk to pay for my food and lodgings and the clothes on my back. And there was no time for idling I can tell you, because I wasn’t alone – there were more than twenty-five thousand of us out there scrabbling around in the rubbish for a pittance. I was worn out by the time I got home. And then at dawn we had to sort through it all before selling it on. Poor as a church mouse I was, but free. I had no fixed working hours. When Vivi came along, I said to my lady wife we can’t carry on doing this. When my poor Loulou died five years ago, I saved up enough to buy Père Gaston’s position.’

  ‘How much longer are you going to stand there prattling? You’re in my way and I’ve got goods to deliver!’ cried a fishmonger strapped to a hand cart.

  Léonard Diélette climbed back up on to his perch and at the click of his tongue the donkey moved on.

  ‘His name’s Clampin,’ Yvette explained, patting the animal. ‘He’s lame and has a bit of a limp, but he’s very strong and never complains, even when the cart is stuffed full.’

  Victor was walking along at the child’s pace. Her black hair emphasised the pallor of her little face, and although she was clean and well groomed, she reminded him of the little urchins in the paintings of Murillo.

  They walked down Rue de Beauce before turning into Rue Pastourelle.

  ‘Are you going far?’ Victor enquired.

  ‘Rue Charlot. Some of the houses there have refuse bins and Papa brings them down and empties them into a bigger bin then cleans them and takes them back. In exchange for doing that, the concierges let him rescue what he wants from the rubbish.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, M’sieur, it’s a good life, and I’m a lucky man! And that’s without mentioning my little arrangement with the cooks. If the concierge is God on high then the cooks are the guardian angels of the buildings. These good women keep the leftovers for me and in return I fetch water for them, shake out the carpets and every so often I act as go-between when one of them falls in love with a coachman!’

  ‘Would you allow me to accompany you? I should like to take a few photographs of you and Vi … Yvette.’

&n
bsp; ‘Be my guest, but don’t expect me to pose for you. I have work to do.’

  What a stroke of luck meeting these two, Victor thought. Now he had an excuse for going to Du Houssoye’s house. Moreover, he could kill two birds with one stone by adding to his photographic series of children at work.

  ‘And where should I deliver the prints?’

  ‘It’s good of you to want to give them to us. Cité Doré, between Rue Jenner, Boulevard de la Gare and Place Pinel – near Cité des Kroumirs, not ten minutes from the Botanical Gardens. There’s a fortune teller next door to us called Sibylla – well, her real name’s Coralie Blinde.’

  ‘I sell pins every afternoon in Rue Montmartre, across from the bar at number 32 – the one with a machine that sells drinks,’ Yvette added.

  As her father was knocking at the lodge of one of the houses, she remarked in a serious voice:

  ‘It’s not allowed.’

  ‘What is not allowed?’

  ‘Selling pins. The gendarmes treat us just like beggars. Last week they picked up my friend Phonsine. She started crying and refused to go down to the station. They told her she would end up a fallen woman if she kept soliciting passers-by with her rubbish. It’s not true. She’s no thief. She earns an honest living, same as me. I take after my papa. One day someone left a banknote in an old jacket. A lot of money, it was. Well, he took it back to the concierge who’d given him the jacket.’

  ‘Where do you buy your pins?’

  ‘Les Halles, first thing. Then I join Papa. And at midday I fill my basket and off I go to work – I love going on the omnibus! And if I see any gendarmes coming, I hide behind the barrels in the bar with the drink machine. I only sell my pins to ladies. Sometimes, they give me as much as fifteen sous.’

  Léonard Diélette handed his daughter several packages, which she placed in the cart. They included two half-eaten lamb chops, some rice pudding wrapped in a bit of newspaper, a few bottle stoppers and jars and some phials and sponges from a chemist’s shop on the ground floor.