The Orchid Affair

by Lauren Willig

  Daubier glanced anxiously over his shoulder, as though expecting Delaroche to pop up behind them like a genie from a bottle. “Among others. You don’t want to draw their attention to yourself, and you will if you remain with Jaouen.”

  “But you are associated with him yourself,” Laura pointed out. “You play chess with him, you call him friend. Why should I be any more in danger than you?”

  “I don’t live under his roof.”

  “You are very kind, Monsieur Daubier, and I appreciate your concern, but—”

  “I’m a meddling old man and you don’t believe a word I say.”

  “I would never put it like that.”

  “Even if it is true,” he finished for her.

  They paused at the gate of the Hôtel de Bac. As always, Jean was nowhere to be seen.

  “Tell me about Monsieur Jaouen,” Laura demanded.

  “What about him?” Daubier’s eyebrows rose like caterpillars on a string.

  Laura couldn’t find a way to put it into words, so she settled for, “Anything you think I ought to know.”

  Daubier cleared his throat with a series of harrumphing noises. When the aural symphony died down, he said, “I was better acquainted with his wife. Julie.”

  Not surprising. Monsieur Daubier had always made it a practice to be better acquainted with the wives. Even as a ten-year-old, Laura had been aware of that. But then, growing up as she had, she had been an unusually precocious ten-year-old.

  “Julie was a pupil of mine, you see,” said Daubier, as if guessing what Laura was thinking.

  Of course, she was. Why hadn’t Laura put two and two together? Naturally the most talented young lady of her generation would go to the most acclaimed artist of his.

  “You remained friends with Monsieur Jaouen after Madame Jaouen’s death?” Laura prompted.

  Daubier assumed his most cherubic expression. “Jaouen plays a good game of chess. A competent chess partner is hard to find, even in Paris.”

  For all his practiced bonhomie, Daubier could be infuriatingly close-lipped when he wanted to be. Laura supposed he had to be, with all the secrets that came out over long portrait sittings, but she could hardly count it a virtue when she was the one questioning rather than concealing.

  Daubier forestalled further questions by taking her hands into his, as he had long ago with the small child she had been when he had helped her up onto the plinth for her portrait. Even though she was a great deal older now, the gesture made Laura feel small again—small and cherished.

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  Laura smiled up at Daubier, feeling the sun glint against the tips of her eyelashes. Looking into his lined old face, as wrinkled and red as an apple, she felt a surge of affection for him, for all the memories she had all but forgotten and for his clumsy attempt at reparations now.

  It was nice to have someone who might be just a little bit on one’s side.

  “You’re not still in the old studio, are you?” There it was again, memory, coming back after all this time: sunlight slanting across a honey-colored floor, a green velvet drape cloth nubby to the touch, the prickle of tiny claws against her fingers.

  “Yes, in the Place Royale. Having found a place I liked, I saw no reason to leave it.”

  Laura marveled at the wonderful sameness of it all. It was nice to know that some things remained the same, and that, come what may, through riot, revolution, and assorted new regimes, M. Antoine Daubier could still be found with brush in hand in the third-floor apartment in the southeast corner of the Place Royale.

  Then Daubier ruined it all by saying, with a squeeze of her hands, “Do be careful, my dear. For your parents’ sake.” He reached up a hand to tap her cheek. “And for your own.”

  “Oy!” a surly Jean poked his nose through the bars of the gate, reluctantly executing his office as gatekeeper. “It’s you, is it?”

  Jean spat into the gravel. Laura recognized this as his hello, how are you? spit.

  “Good evening, Jean,” she said, extracting her hands from Daubier’s grasp. So much for emotional reunions. “Would you care to open the gate for me?”

  The early dark of winter was beginning to fall, slanting across the building to cast a shadow across the court, so that while the street outside the gate was still in full sun, the courtyard brooded in shadow.

  A bird perched above the porte cochere, rooting with its beak among its feathers. Its feathers were a deep, unrelieved black.

  Naturally. It would be a raven.

  Jean made a great production of hauling open the huge iron doors. “He coming in too?” he demanded, launching another wad of phlegm at Daubier. His supply seemed to be inexhaustible. Laura wondered that the First Consul didn’t deploy him against the Austrians. That would be one way to damp their cannon.

  “No, no.” Daubier took a step back, lifting his hands in negation. The raven shifted restlessly on the roof, eyeing the shiny top of Daubier’s cane.

  “Will you be all right?” said Laura, thinking of the old man alone, on foot, in the dark. “Perhaps you should take the carriage?”

  “No need,” said Daubier. “These old legs can still bear me up. But . . .”

  He broke off as Jean slammed the gate between them, metal hitting metal with an ominous clang. Daubier drew in a sharp breath through his nose. Coming straight up to the gate, he rested his hands on the ornate grille, his nose sticking through a particularly swirly curlicue. It ought to have looked comic, but the worry in his eyes killed any appearance of comedy.

  “Take care,” Daubier said somberly. “Take care. And remember. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  Overhead, the raven cawed.

  Chapter 12

  “You should be more careful of the company you keep, Jaouen.”

  Despite the sunlight falling through the window, Delaroche managed to keep to the shadows in his side of the carriage. It was almost as though the dark recognized a kindred soul and knit itself around him.

  André stretched his legs comfortably in front of him and managed a credible yawn. “Governesses, you mean?” he said. “Surely I could hardly do better than to follow your example.”

  Delaroche’s eyes glinted like a rat’s. “Sometimes even the teacher can be taught.”

  Not this teacher. André would have laughed if it hadn’t been so important to keep Delaroche on a short string. He would have been more likely to suspect his governess of subversion had Delaroche not gone to such pains to make him do so. If the governess were really Delaroche’s creature, the man would be a fool to draw attention to it. He was just trying to sow discord and dissension, as usual. It was what he did.

  Delaroche was slipping, thought André critically. This really wasn’t up to his usual standard.

  Of course, it could all be a clever double-fake—if Delaroche were that clever. But Delaroche wasn’t that clever, and his governess wasn’t that malleable. Judging from their prior interactions, André would have been willing to attest that Mlle. Griscogne was about as ripe for subversion as a balky mule.

  Still, everyone had her price. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that his governess was on Delaroche’s payroll. Logic told André that it was perfectly likely. Gut instinct told him otherwise.

  Over the years, André had learned to trust his gut.

  Was he being foolish, allowing himself to be swayed by the fact that she had known Julie’s old teacher, or that she had been, once, a very long time ago, the Girl with the Finch?

  That painting had been one of Julie’s favorites, although her own style had been grander, bolder, and more inclined towards vast allegorical topics than the narrow and domestic world of Daubier’s portraiture. Against a plain background, the painting depicted a dark-haired little girl in a white dress with a bright orange sash and a finch perched on one raised hand so that she seemed in colloquy with the bird. The most striking thing about the portrait had been the girl’s expression. Her dar
k eyes had been bright with curiosity as she contemplated the bird. The portrait had been hailed as a representation of the unbounded possibilities of the human intellect in a world of natural wonders, a popular theme in those bright days before the world had burst into smoke and blood.

  André wondered if his governess knew that she had become a pre-Revolutionary icon, a symbol of the lost dreams of the Enlightenment. The girl with a finch, who had now become . . . what? The woman with a crow? A spy for the Ministry of Police?

  Or simply what she claimed to be, a woman alone, orphaned, making her way as best she could in an inhospitable world, and doing a damned good job of it.

  André forced himself to adopt a suitably bored tone. “Have you been essaying lessons, Gaston?”

  Delaroche hated it when André called him by his first name, which was exactly why he did it. Baiting Delaroche involved a delicate balance; one had to goad him just enough to maintain the balance of power, but not enough to provoke him into overt retaliation. Even hobbled, Delaroche was a dangerous enemy to have.

  Was there anyone who wasn’t? thought André wearily. His world was a snake pit, in which even the smallest serpent’s venom could prove deadly.

  “I wasn’t thinking of the governess,” said Delaroche, licking his lips in a way that suggested he had an even better card to play. “I was speaking of artists. Painters, poets, actors. Like that friend of yours. The one in the flamboyant jacket.”

  “I don’t know any actors, actually,” André said, examining the seams of his gloves. “A lamentable oversight. As you know, Fouché has entrusted me with the monitoring of the artistic community. Such as it is.”

  How Julie would object if she knew that was her legacy, her connections with the artistic community used as a means of gathering intelligence for her least-favorite cousin. Once a month, André threw an open house in the grand and deserted salons of the Hôtel de Bac, inviting painters, poets, philosophers, and the ladies who patronized them. Sometimes they recited; sometimes they displayed their work; other times they just drank.

  Fouché never attended. That would destroy the illusion that it was nothing more than a social occasion. A tattered illusion, but a useful one, nonetheless.

  “I would be wary of spending too much time with them,” Delaroche shot back. “Lest their habits rub off on you.”

  “What habits might those be?” André asked. “Good taste? Proper diction?”

  Delaroche’s eyes narrowed. “Improper allegiances, you mean. There have been rumors about your friend, that Monsieur Daubier.”

  “Yes, I know,” said André. “I’ve heard them too. A cause for congratulation, don’t you agree, that he should be chosen by the First Consul to paint his portrait? It is not an honor extended to everyone.”

  “For good reason.” Delaroche rested his palms on his knees as he leaned forward. “Someone allowed such intimate access to the First Consul might succumb to the temptation to treason.”

  “What are you saying, Delaroche?”

  Delaroche smiled a nasty smile. “Exactly what it seems. Your friend has been known to accept commissions from unregenerate members of the Ancien Regime.”

  “All of whom are now accepted at the First Consul’s court,” André said acidly. Bonaparte and his wife had been assiduously courting the old aristocracy, seeking to add some luster to their increasingly pseudo-regal arrangements. “Daubier’s paintings helped make the Revolution. You can’t possibly mean to imply—”

  “He wears very gaudy waistcoats,” interrupted Delaroche.

  André resisted the urge to shove the other man’s hat straight down over his dour face. “Good God, man. If you arrested every man in Paris with the temerity to sport a gaudy waistcoat, there would be more people in the prisons than on the street. We’d have to declare a national emergency.”

  Delaroche glowered from under the brim of his highly unfashionable hat. “This is not a laughing matter, Jaouen.”

  Of course not. It didn’t involve thumbscrews. The only diversions Delaroche found amusing were those that involved the crunching of cartilage.

  “Naturally not,” said André grimly. “Just think of the repercussions. The English would start shipping in waistcoats to our coastline, just to undermine our ordinances. The Austrians would probably contribute gold trim. You would find underground groups of waistcoat fanciers congregating in basements. And why? All because one elderly artist has a penchant for scarlet and gold.”

  Delaroche fanned out the tails of his own black coat, like a bird ruffling its feathers. “Scarlet and gold are royal colors. You can’t deny that, Jaouen.”

  Neither would the First Consul, who had increasingly adopted those colors for his own use, along with the jewels, the throne, and several palaces. There was nothing like collecting all the accoutrements.

  “All the more reason to appropriate those shades for our virtuous citizenry, wouldn’t you agree? I doubt Daubier was making a political statement when he chose his waistcoat, any more than you were in wearing that hat.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my hat.”

  André leaned comfortably back against the seat. “I never said there was.”

  Delaroche had been devilishly touchy about his attire ever since being the recipient of a series of mocking notes on the topic from none other than Sir Percy Blakeney. He had claimed not to mind, but the mockery had obviously left its mark, if not any actual improvement in his appearance.

  “You sound like that damned, elusive Pimpernel,” snapped Delaroche.

  André laughed. “Him? His accent is pure Versailles.” He exaggerated his own Breton burr, knowing that it made his point for him better than any number of testimonials. His own Revolutionary credentials were impeccable and Delaroche knew it. “Besides, he’s been out of the business for some time. You’re behind the times, Gaston. Isn’t there another flower making trouble these days?” He snapped his fingers as though trying to recall. “Something pink?”

  “The Carnation,” snapped Delaroche. “The Pink Carnation.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot that you had personal experience of the creature.”

  Delaroche donned his most sinister expression, the one that made him look like someone had just pinched his nose. “I will find him.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said André soothingly. “Eventually.”

  “Do you mock?” Delaroche demanded.

  Always a dangerous question. If one had to ask, the answer was probably yes.

  “No. I marvel,” said André. “I don’t see the point of fainting in terror at a pile of petals.” André turned to the window as the ancient carriage lurched to a halt that threatened to detach the cab from the wheels. “Ah, look. We seem to have arrived.”

  Two guards stood outside a narrow structure. They were both, André noticed, employees of the Prefecture, rather than Fouché’s personal staff. Fouché had a long-standing rivalry with Dubois, the Prefect of Paris. This, as a matter concerning Paris, would be technically in Dubois’s purview. More importantly, he had gotten there first.

  André looked back at Delaroche. Now he understood his colleague’s eagerness to fetch him. As second in command at the Prefecture, André had automatic access. Delaroche, on the other hand, would not. At least, not without André.

  Seeing André at the window, one of the guards hurried forward and yanked open the door for him, nearly capsizing the carriage in his eagerness to wrench open to the door.

  “Monsieur Jaouen! Thank goodness you’re here, sir.”

  “What happened?” asked André without preamble. He made for the house without looking to see if Delaroche followed.

  “It was Cadoudal!” said the first guard excitably. “He had Louis Picot here with him posing as manservant. We recognized him from his picture in the Bulletin. We followed him back here.”

  The picture was becoming clear. “But Picot gave the alarm?”

  “Picot gave the alarm,” confirmed the second guard morosely. “He realized someon
e was behind him”—a dirty look at his comrade, who hung his head and looked at his feet—“and began bawling out the first verse of the ‘Marseillaise.’ ”

  “Their signal,” guessed André.

  The second guard nodded. “By the time we made it up here, Cadoudal was gone.”

  “Has anyone searched upstairs?”

  The first guard shook his head. “We were instructed to wait for you.”

  André noticed them studiously not looking at Delaroche. So he had tried to get in, had he?

  “Well done,” he told them, and watched the first guard preen like a puppy. “You’ve been very helpful. Where can I find the room?”

  “Straight up,” said the first guard. “The second floor, to the right.”

  The building was small but well-maintained, the stairs swept clean, with cheap but fresh paper on the wall, no different from hundreds of similar boardinghouses across Paris. André took the stairs carefully, looking about him as he went. Contrary to popular opinion, a clever spy chose not a dark bolt-hole, but a tidy lodging house, a place where supper was served on time and the general population of low-level clerks was such as to not call the attention of the law. A man might hide indefinitely in such a situation.

  Or almost indefinitely.

  Cadoudal’s lodging was innocuous enough in itself—one large room with a smaller beyond for the manservant, a washstand behind a screen, a camp bed in one corner with furniture arranged as a sitting area in the other. From the look of the room, Cadoudal had been prepared for early flight. On the table, a partly eaten meat pie and a hunk of cheese sat next to a half-empty glass and a carafe of vin ordinaire (where Cadoudal was, there was always food), and clothing had been scattered across the floor as though a portmanteau had broken in flight, but the room was curiously bare of either books or papers.

  There would be a thorough examination made, ravaging the mattress, the walls, the floorboards, but André doubted anything more would be found; canny old campaigner that he was, Cadoudal must have kept his more sensitive documents packed in one place, ready to go at the first strains of “La Marseillaise.”