The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf Page 25
Duval untangled himself and rose to his knees. I pulled myself up against the window frame. He swung his arm at me. I darted to the side. The force of his arm hit the hard metal. He screamed.
I stood and hurled myself forward, my chest heaving. I pushed him against the railing. He clawed at my face and kicked me. I stumbled over a loose tile and fell to the ground.
“I have you now!” he shouted. He grabbed my legs and pulled me to the railing. I groaned as he banged my back against the iron, trying to pull me up. A roaring sound filled my ears. I pushed and kicked at him, to no avail. He was a trained soldier. I was no match for him. He bent my back over the balustrade.
“You are a dead man, Gastebois,” he hissed in my ear.
My heart raced with fear as he lifted me up. My hands flailed about, seeking purchase on the railing. I grabbed hold of two of the balusters, braced myself, and kicked at him with all my might. He stumbled and lost his grip on me. I dropped down to the roof and rolled away just as he lunged at me again. He hit the railing hard. The top half of his body folded over the top. His arms jerked as he tried to find something to grasp.
At that moment, the clouds floated away from the moon. The roof was bathed in silver light. I pulled myself up to my hands and knees and crawled toward Duval. Pull him back, but bang his head against the railing to knock him out, I told myself. The sharp edges of the pantiles cut into the palms of my hands. I reached the railing and stretched to pull at Duval. I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head. A man had appeared on the roof. He raced toward Duval. He reached the railing, leaned down, and grabbed Duval’s legs. With a loud grunt, he raised them and pushed Duval over the railing.
Duval’s screams lasted but a minute. I heard a loud thud and then a splash. The stranger looked down at me. The moonlight clearly outlined his wrinkled face, with its large nose and wide, rectangular forehead. He nodded at me, scrambled up the roof, and disappeared down the hatch.
I stared after him, stunned. I was unable to move. My breath came in ragged gasps. My hands were bleeding. Get up. Go. I climbed up the roof on all fours, my feet sliding on the slippery pantiles.
When I finally reached the open hatch, I leaned over and shouted down the stairs.
“Wait! Please! Bricon! Wait!”
• •
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I climbed through the hatch and down the ladder, and then stumbled down the stairs. In the foyer, I found Aimée in a heap by the open door, weeping. The gag had been removed from her mouth and the cord binding her hands had been cut. My knife lay beside her.
I knelt and took her hands. “Are you all right, chérie?” I asked.
She nodded.
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I said. “Now, can you wait here for me for a few minutes? I’ll be right back.”
“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “But hurry, I am freezing.”
I pulled my cloak off and handed it to her. “Wrap yourself in this. I’ll be back soon.”
I went out to the bridge. Bricon was down by the statue of King Henri, heading toward the Left Bank.
“Wait, Bricon! I must speak to you!” I called. I started down the bridge. Bricon quickened his pace. “Please!” I cried.
He stopped. I ran to him, my breath puffing from the night’s exertions. He turned to me and put his hands up in the air.
“Please, monsieur, do not kill me,” he begged. “I know you want to. You are right. I deserve to die.”
“You stupid old man!” I shouted. “My sister and I almost died in there!”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He lowered his arms. “Please, please, monsieur. I had no idea that you and your sister would be put in danger. I am so sorry.”
“You used me,” I said. “Tell me why.”
He glanced toward the Samaritaine. “That man up there—he is evil. When I saw him here on the bridge in September, I knew I had to do something about him. I had to protect my beloved girl.”
“Geneviève Rivière?” I asked. “Who is she to you?”
“She is my granddaughter,“ he said. “The only child of my own only child, my beautiful Marianne. She died giving birth to Geneviève. The babe’s father died a year later, so I raised Geneviève on my small farm in Varennes. My servant, Hubert Montigny, helped me. We both loved her as if she was our own child. The three of us were happy until that pig Duval came.” He spat.
“He was stationed nearby,” I said.
“Yes. My girl was just at the brink of womanhood. He used her in the most sordid manner. She thought she loved him. When he received his transfer to Paris, she wanted to follow him. I begged her to stay, but she wouldn’t listen. We had harsh words for one another. She left with him.”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “I wish I could take back the things I said to her then.” He wiped his face.
“A year after she left, a neighbor of mine told me that he had seen Geneviève when he had been in Paris on business. She was selling herself on the street, he said. That fiend Duval had abandoned her. I knew then that I had to come here to find her. Hubert and I agreed that I would sell the farm and we would move to Paris, where we could watch over our girl.”
“And you found her?” I asked.
“Yes. It took us a while, but we finally did. By then she had a wealthy patron, a merchant, not the duc who takes care of her now. She was studying acting and had small roles in the theater up on the boulevards. We decided not to tell her that we were here. She seemed to be moving up in life and did not need us.”
“But you both stayed,” I said.
“Yes. Over the years, I kept watch over her, and was always on the lookout for Duval. I wanted to punish him for what he did to Geneviève. Last September, during a riot, I saw him here. I knew that now that he was back in Paris, he would find a way to torment Geneviève. I found his office and started following him around the city. I noticed that large ring he wore. So Hubert and I cooked up our plot.”
“Using me as your accomplice,” I said.
He hung his head. “Yes,” he said. “Hyacinthe de Breul had mentioned that he had a friend who was a confidential inquirer. You were just what Hubert and I needed. We decided to pretend that Duval had kidnapped and murdered me. I left the blackmail note and the clipping about Duval’s return to Paris in my room, hoping to point you in the right direction. We hoped that you would conclude that Duval had killed me, and that you would cause trouble for him with the police. I left Paris and went back to Varennes to wait for Hubert’s message that our plan had been a success. But then everything went wrong.”
“I started to investigate you,” I said. “I learned about the smuggling and the pamphlets. And I discovered that Duval was dishonest.”
“Yes. You proved too efficient for us, in the end. I had no idea that Duval was involved in selling illegal pamphlets. I obtained the ones I sold from a Belgian immigrant, who was always pestering me to sell even more. I gave my friend Vincent Chéron the things to sell. That turned out to be a mistake.”
“And when I reported my activities to Montigny, he panicked,” I said. I remembered my meeting with my client in the tavern. When I had told him about the illegal pamphlets Bricon had been selling, Montigny had quickly steered my attention back to the blackmail note, and to the idea that Duval had murdered Bricon. When I had casually mentioned the woman that Bricon had sung about on the bridge, my client had become flustered and had fled.
Bricon began to weep again. “Yes, the old fool,” he said. “Why didn’t he just stick to our plan? He must have decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“Yes, he tried to blackmail Duval himself, and Duval killed him,” I said.
“When I didn’t hear from Hubert, I came back to Paris,” Bricon said. “I learned that Hubert was dead. I started to follow you, so that I could protect you from Duval if necessary. I never wanted you or your sister to be harmed.”
A shout sounded from the quai des Augustins.
“No, probably just some drunk noblemen finding their way home,” I said. “But we must leave here soon, before the Watch comes by.”
“What will you do?” the old man asked. “Will you tell the police I killed Duval?”
I shook my head. “No. I can’t admit I was involved in this. If anyone finds out I was here, I’ll have a hard time explaining myself. But you should leave Paris right away. Duval’s body will wash up somewhere. He may have been smashed beyond recognition from the fall, but he’ll still be wearing that ring—”
He grasped my hand and kissed it. “Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.”
“You had better go,” I said. “And leave tonight—don’t wait until the morning.”
“I have friends with a horse I can borrow. I’ll be on my way within the hour,” he said. “But please, monsieur, I have one thing to ask of you.”
“I have nothing left to give you, old man,” I said.
He pulled an object out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked down at the locket I had found hidden beneath the floorboards of his lodgings, years ago, it seemed, when this case began.
“Take this to Geneviève,” he said. “It belonged to her mother. Tell her that she is safe from that man. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that I will always love her.”
I wanted to knock the locket out of his hand, turn around, and take my sister home. I wanted to forget all about this case. But then I thought of my poor client, who had given his life to protect Geneviève Rivière.
I looked into Bricon’s face. “I will,” I said, taking the locket and tucking it into the pocket of my breeches. “Now go, quickly, before someone sees us.”
He turned and ran down the road. I watched as he reached the end of the bridge and disappeared down the rue Dauphine.
I walked back to the Samaritaine. Aimée was still on the floor of the foyer, wrapped in my cloak, fast asleep. I leaned over and pulled her up. She moaned softly. I lifted her in my arms. “Come chérie,” I whispered. “It is time to go home.”
As I stepped outside onto the bridge, a light snow started to fall. I pulled the door of the Samaritaine closed. The bridge was silent and deserted. My sister murmured something incoherent and snuggled in my arms. In a moment I heard her softly snoring. I tucked my cloak tightly around her, held her close, and carried her off the Pont Neuf into the dark, sleeping city.
• •
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later
“I don’t understand. Why did he never come to me?”
Geneviève Rivière sat in a deep armchair, holding her dead mother’s locket in one hand and a fine lace handkerchief in the other. Her soft gray eyes and long dark lashes glistened with tears. I sat across from her, gazing at her, suddenly aware of my heart thumping in my chest.
I had waited two weeks after my confrontation with Marc-Étienne Duval at the Samaritaine to fulfill Bricon’s request that I deliver the locket to his granddaughter. When I had been certain that Aimée was recovering from her ordeal, I’d presented myself at the mansion in the rue de la Planche and asked to speak with Mademoiselle Violette on an urgent personal matter. At first the steward had refused me entry, but after I had cajoled him into taking the locket up to his mistress, a maid had quickly appeared and led me upstairs to a small, elegantly-furnished salon. I had told Geneviève about the old men’s plot to protect her, about Montigny’s murder, and that Duval was dead. When she realized that her grandfather had been in Paris watching over her for years without her knowing, she had started to weep.
Now I was struggling to explain Bricon’s rationale to her. “He told me that he only wanted to protect you,” I said. “He wanted to be certain that you were safe from Duval, but he had seen that you had made a success of yourself, and he did not wish to disturb your life.”
I watched as she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. If you loved me, I thought, nothing would keep me away. “I also believe he was ashamed. He told me that you two parted on bad terms all those years ago.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was young and foolish. I was headstrong, and I wanted Marc-Étienne. Grandfather and I spoke harsh words to one another.”
“He told me that he regretted them,” I said softly.
“And poor Hubert,” she said. “He used to make dolls for me from scraps of fabric and straw, when I was a little girl. Now he is dead because of me.”
“I don’t believe that either your grandfather or Hubert, were he still alive, would not do it all again,” I said. “They loved you and wanted to see you safe.”
She buried her head in her hands. I sat and watched her, longing to go over to comfort her.
After a moment she looked up at me. She wiped her eyes. “What am I thinking?” she said, her voice hoarse from crying. “You’ve been so kind to come here, to tell me this story and bring me Maman’s locket, and I haven’t offered you anything.” She reached for a bell on the table beside her. “I’ll ring for coffee,” she said.
I stood. “No, there is no need. I have stayed too long. I have some business to attend to.” I’m lying. I could sit here gazing at you for the rest of my life.
She rose and offered me her hand.
“Thank you so much for coming to me, Monsieur Gastebois,” she said.
I took her hand and bowed over it.
She withdrew her hand and reached for the bell. “I will ring for Louise. She will show you out.”
“I can see myself out, mademoiselle,” I said.
“Then I thank you again.”
I gave another brief bow and then left her. I walked slowly down the stairs to the foyer, where the steward nodded at me. I bundled my cloak around me as I went into the courtyard and started toward the street.
I was almost at the gate when I heard a voice behind me.
“Monsieur Gastebois?”
I turned to see Louise, the maid. She ran up to me and held out a bag of coins. “Mademoiselle wished to give you this, to thank you for your trouble,” she said.
I hesitated and stared at the bag.
“What should I tell her, monsieur?” Louise asked.
I took a deep breath. Tell her that there is no need to reward me, I wanted to say. Tell her that I am her humble servant. Tell her that should she ever need assistance, she should send for me at Lacombe’s wineshop in the rue Saint-Jacques. Tell her that her eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen—
Louise pushed the bag toward me and raised a brow.
I looked up at the sky. Leaden clouds were rolling in, blocking the sun. The smell of snow was in the air. Don’t be a fool, I told myself. A harsh winter was approaching. My brother would spend it giving his own meager food rations away to the poor. I would have to go out to Saint-Antoine every few days and take him out to eat so that he would not starve to death himself. And Aimée would need a bolt of thick wool with which to sew a new, warmer cloak.
“What shall I tell her, monsieur?” Louise asked again.
“Tell her—tell her that I thank her,” I said.
I reached for the bag.
• •
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On December 27, 1788, Louis XVI’s council issued a proclamation doubling the number of commoner delegates to the upcoming Estates General. The decision about whether vote would be by estate or by head was deferred until the Estates General convened in May 1789.
The academic literature on France in the late eighteenth century is vast. For readers interested in the complex intersection of circumstances that led to the French Revolution, I recommend the essays found in Thomas E. Kaiser and Dale K. Van Kley, editors, From Deficits to Deluge: The Origins of the French Revolution (Stanford University Press, 2011). David Garrioch’s The Making of Revolutionary Paris (University of California Press, 2004) is a fascinating account of how the customs, history, geography, and social structure of the city made it the center of revolutionary activity.
Some additional readings on some of the issues, characters, and places mentioned in The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf: for a detailed account of libels and the underground press, Robert Darnton, The Devil in the Holy Water, or the Art of Slander from Louis XIV to Napoleon (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011); for the lives and work of seamstresses in eighteenth-century Paris, Clare Haru Crowston, Fabricating Women: The Seamstresses of Old Regime France, 1675-1791 (Duke University Press, 2001); and for the role prostitution played in Parisian society, Nina Kushner, Erotic Exchanges: The World of Elite Prostitution in Eighteenth-Century Paris (Cornell University Press, 2013). Song peddlers are described in Robert M. Isherwood, Farce and Fantasy: Popular Entertainment in Eighteenth-Century Paris (Oxford University Press, 1989); the book also includes a detailed chapter about the Palais Royal. Parisians’ fascination with and mania for collecting exotic animals, including canaries, is described in Louise E. Robbins, Elephant Slaves and Pampered Parrots: Exotic Animals in Eighteenth-Century Paris (The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002).
The modern city of Paris is a product of the nineteenth century, when Emperor Napoleon III and Baron Georges-Eugèn Haussmann replaced large swathes of the dense, crumbling city center with the long avenues and vistas the world loves today. Many of the streets that Paul Gastebois walks are no longer in existence, and the reader who enjoys following along on a map while reading (as I always do) will be frustrated if using a current map of Paris. I’ve placed a link to a city map from 1785 on my web site at www.lauralebowbooks.com , and have also included a list of the modern names for many of the streets mentioned in the book. For readers who would like some flavor of what the city looked like before the Haussmann redevelopment, the pictures in Leonard Pitt’s Walks Through Lost Paris (Counterpoint Press, 2006) are fascinating.
Readers who are familiar with Paris should be aware that the theater that Paul sits outside on the many cold nights he is watching Anton Cobenzl is not the modern Comédie-Française, the monumental building next to the Palais Royal in the rue de Richelieu. That building was under construction in 1788. While waiting for the building to be finished, the troupe played at what is now the Théâtre de l’Odéon, on the Left Bank above the Luxembourg Gardens.