Deadly Descent (21 page)

The dark face seemed unconcerned that others fell so far short of the ideal he had died pursuing. He had ridden into combat in front of his men to rouse their courage. He had shown magnanimity, forgiving fellow officers who had failed him. He had spent his fortune prodigally, aiding the widows and children of men who had died under his command. In his father's features, Saint-Martin now discerned lines of intrepid integrity where he had previously seen only vainglory. He felt strangely moved.

Lieutenant-General DeCrosne had invoked noble privilege to protect the “good name” of the Société des Amateurs. Nobles invoked it to gain offices, titles, and pensions they did not deserve. The colonel sighed. His adjutant had brought home to him what he had long suspected. Today's nobility hadn't the slightest commitment to public service. Its only concerns were pleasure, prestige, and profit. Its honor, no more than elegant posturing.

The disturbing image of Robert LeCourt forced itself into this silent discourse. LeCourt, whose power rested on money. Nobles now groveled before bankers and financiers. The finance minister, Calonne, was beseeching LeCourt and his Dutch bankers to
kindly
help ease the king's debt. Dozens of the most distinguished men at court were pressing LeCourt to invest their money. Whatever he touched seemed to turn a profit.

Saint-Martin shuddered, as if foreseeing a grim future. Clever, ruthless men of money, like LeCourt, would eventually brush aside aristocratic privilege, its foundations rotting away, and take the privileges of power for themselves.

“What should I do?” mused Saint-Martin out loud, seeking contact with his father's eyes. “Retreat?” He paused expectantly for a moment, then answered himself in measured, mocking cadence: “Let the Amateurs have their way, don't probe. That's what all the king's ministers say.”

Looking down at the floor, dark and inscrutable in the thin candle light, Saint-Martin experienced a curious sensation. The ground of his life—all that he had assumed to be solid—now seemed to be shaking, like the treacherous surface of a quagmire in a storm. And he was risking rebuke and disgrace. With menace in his voice, the lieutenant-general had warned, “I will not tolerate disobedience.”

In the eerie stillness of the gallery, Saint-Martin gazed at his father, yearning silently for reassurance. Time seemed suspended. Then, rapt by the portrait, he sensed the old warrior nodding.
Fiat justitia, ruat caelum
. Let justice be done, though heaven falls.

Chapter 21

Night Games

As Anne stepped out of the picture gallery, she heard an orch-estra playing in the distance. With Michou in tow, she followed the sound to a thicket of servants and visitors in the far end of the building. Through an open door, she glimpsed a swirling medley of pink, yellow, and green silk ribbons; pale, filmy gowns; pastel shirts, breeches, and silk hose. A babble of voices rose above the music. She was tempted to linger, to observe the party, but she knew Michou would become anxious.

When they reached their apartment, a page was waiting outside with a message from Chevalier de Pressigny. The music came from his party, a prelude to the next day's reception. Would she sing a few songs for a stipend of twenty livres? There were no further obligations and dress was informal. If she wished, she could stay for dancing and games of chance.

Leaving the page in the hallway, Anne followed Michou into the parlor. She leaned back against the door, reading the message again. Twenty livres. A generous sum! Another trick by Pressigny, no doubt. Two could play that game. She kissed the paper, then let it drop. Whirling about the parlor, flaring her skirt in graceful arcs, she mimicked the dancers she had seen in his apartment. She halted by the window, the small of her back against the sill.

Across the room, Michou picked up the crumpled message from the floor. Though she couldn't read, she mulled over it with growing anxiety. For a moment, she stared at Anne with an expression akin to terror. Then she whirled twice, mimicking Anne's movements, and struck the paper as if with a dagger.

Anne nodded gravely. Her friend realized Pressigny had invited Anne to the party.

Michou slowly shook her head. Tears began to trickle down her cheek.

Some of Michou's terror crept into Anne's own flesh. The host was hardly someone she could trust. With a rush of tenderness, she put a reassuring arm around Michou's shoulder and caressed her, then led her to her room, where she set to work on her sketch of the Chanavas jewels.

Alone again in the parlor, Anne paced the floor, raking her hand through her hair. If she joined the party, she could get to know Pressigny better, explore his apartment. She might even recognize a stolen work of art, like the jasper bowl.

A mirror caught her eye. She strutted like a street-walker and pouted sensuously. Was Pressigny trying to seduce her? Fine. She would sing and dance with him. Then she saw herself growing still before the mirror. A shadow of fear crossed her face. Could she control him? Georges had returned to Chateau Beaumont. She would be on her own.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It showed eleven at night. The party had only begun. Squaring her shoulders, she went resolutely to the armoire in her bedroom and drew out a gauzy robe and a handful of blue silk ribbons. She dressed quickly, her fingers trembling with excitement.

The page brought Anne into a large salon lighted by a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and by sconces on the wall. She caught sight of Henriette Picard and several other familiar faces from the variety theater. Supplementing their meager income, Anne thought sadly. Laughter rippled across the room. At the far end, a group of musicians seated on a low stage accompanied men and women in a lively gavotte.

Chevalier de Pressigny appeared at her side, his mauve shirt open at the throat. “Delighted you could come!” He flashed her a disarming smile. After the dance, she followed him through the crowd to the stage. He surprised her, proposing they sing a duet. Why not? she thought. Singing was both innocent and safe. And a step toward knowing him better.

Their first song, a popular love ballad by Rameau, began hesitantly but the harmonies were simple and their voices soon blended, his rich baritone with her alto. The words called for her to flirt with him, a task she found dangerously easy. His hair was thick, black, and wavy; his mouth ripe.

Between songs they danced a simple gavotte, she eluding the kisses allowed him by custom. He acknowledged her dexterity with an indulgent smile, his eyes exploring her face, his right arm around her waist. She would have enjoyed his company, were it not that every time he extended his left hand, clothed in a soft, fawn glove, she recalled the scar and shuddered inwardly.

Their act finished to polite applause. He suggested a cool drink outside. They picked up a carafe of white wine and glasses, left the salon, and passed through a small library into a darkened sitting room. A single spluttering sconce feebly lighted a pair of ornamental fig trees standing like sentinels in large urns, flanking the open doors to a balcony. As Anne drew closer, a shaft of pale moonlight revealed a young man and a woman coupled in passionate embrace. At the sight of Pressigny, they smiled, unembarrassed, and yielded the place.

The sounds of the party, now distant and muted, competed with a chorus of crickets on the ground below. The warm still air lay soft on the skin. Anne put her glass on a table, reached for the metal railing, and glanced up toward the hazy moonlit sky. She sensed her companion moving closer. When their bodies touched, she stepped back from the railing and took a sip of the wine. He accepted her gesture without protest. He had learned how to wait, thought Anne, surprised. She had believed him more inclined, like a spoiled child, to grow petulant when denied a pleasure.

As they sat at the table drinking, his tongue loosened. His guests could manage very well without him for a while. She drew him toward theater life, something they shared. He enjoyed vaudeville, he said, fancying especially the tightrope acts. He would like to tie a rope between this balcony and the next and walk across. With training he could do it, she agreed, squinting at him in the dim light. While dancing, she had noticed his excellent balance, perfect coordination, and lithe, muscular physique.

Fingering her glass, she put on a face of innocent curiosity. “What are you preparing for us at the theater tomorrow night?”

“A frothy little thing about a clown cuckolded by his wife and her lover.” He pulled his chair closer to hers.

Anne shivered. This could be the very same sex farce she and Georges had discovered in the Amateurs' office. “And what happens to the clown?” She sipped from her glass to mask her feelings.

He grinned waggishly. “You will find out tomorrow night.”

For a few moments, he seemed willing to be led on, but he was distracted by a slight rustling noise high above them. Anne involuntarily stepped back. An instant later, a large handful of debris clattered on the tiles where she had been standing. Startled, she glanced up, the crash echoing in her ears.

“Is someone on the roof?” she asked incredulously, recalling it rose high above the mansard floor. It would be difficult to cross even in daylight.

“A large bird or small animal,” he replied calmly. “A man can't be up there.”

Beneath his reassurance, she detected a note of alarm. “Are we in danger?”

“Yes, if the culprit were to dislodge loose masonry on our heads.”

“We'd better move inside.” She rose from her chair, the warm stillness of the air now feeling ominous.

In the faint light of the sitting room, he appeared tense and preoccupied, his eyes blank. Entering the salon, they were greeted by slurred shouts and raucous laughter. Anne spied a pink ribbon hanging from one sconce and a pair of pale blue slippers slung over another. Several couples near the stage swung about in a rollicking country dance, out of step with the music. A pride of young men, faces flushed with wine, prowled among the tables, leering at bosoms flaunted by courtesans, including Henriette, who caught Anne's eye and beckoned.

It was time to leave. She started for the door. Pressigny came out of his distraction, caught up with her, and took her hand, bowing slightly. Acting the perfect gentleman, she thought, and bid him a polite goodnight.

The clack of her heels echoed eerily in the corridor to her apartment. No one was in sight. A lone sconce cast a thin flickering light, triggering her imagination. The shadows of grotesque beasts played on the walls; malign spirits lurked in the darkness of the doorways. She slipped into the apartment, carefully locking the door behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Michou was still awake, bent over her table. Anne tiptoed up to her and glanced over her shoulder. Her gallery sketch lay to one side. She was drawing the cat, Princesse, lying on the cushion. Anne tiptoed out, closed the door quietly, and went to her own bedroom. The hour was late, the air very warm and humid. She took off her clothes and lay on the covers, drifting into a deep sleep.

She woke suddenly. Michou stood beckoning in the doorway with a spluttering candle. For a few moments, Anne had no idea where she was. She pulled on a light robe and followed Michou. The clock on the mantel showed one in the morning. She gestured to Anne that she had left her room to check the hall door before going to bed. She had just seen the handle move.

Anne calmed her with a hug, drew close to the door, and listened. At first, she heard nothing. But a few seconds later, there were footsteps and whispers. Her heart pounded. Who could be trying to come in? Several Amateurs had rooms in the mansard. By now they would be drunk on Pressigny's wine.

“Well,” Anne said to Michou, “we can't stare at the door all night.” She waved her friend to the side and armed herself with an iron poker from the fireplace. Holding her breath, she turned the key, pushed the handle down, then yanked open the door. Michou lifted her candle. A man was leaning against the opposite wall, a sheepish expression on his face. He swiftly raised a finger to his lips.

“Georges!” Anne whispered. She beckoned him into the parlor and closed the door.

“How'd you know I was there?”

“Michou saw the door handle turn and became frightened.”

“Sorry. I was making sure the door was locked. I thought you were asleep.”

“What's going on?”

“I returned from Chateau Beaumont a half-hour ago. Madame Soucie said Pressigny and his guests were running wild. Krishna's in Paris. The servant girls had come to her for safety. Then she worried about you and Michou. Sent one of Soucie's men up here. I just took his place. That's what you heard.”

Anne took the candle from Michou's hand and brought its light close to Georges' face. His eyes were blood-shot and heavy-lidded. A day's growth of beard added ten years to his appearance. She gestured toward chairs by the window where they could enjoy a slight breeze. “It
was
Madame Soucie who treated Pressigny, wasn't it?” she asked confidently.

“Yes,” he replied. “And she gave me the stiletto she had pulled out of his hand.” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “The colonel has it now. The initials
L.L.
are on the handle.”

Anne felt elated. Laplante's stiletto in Pressigny's hand the evening of her death! Could any magistrate continue to blame Antoine Dubois? “What does the colonel want to do with Pressigny?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. A flash of anger hardened his face. “Nothing, for the moment,” he remarked dryly. “Keep him in the dark.”

“Why not arrest him?” Her hope for Antoine ebbed like an outgoing tide.

Georges shifted in his chair, as if uncomfortable with the question. “That's what I asked him. He said Pressigny has powerful protection. We would need overwhelming evidence against him to persuade the lieutenant-general.”

There had been conflict between the two men, Anne realized, and she felt torn. Her heart was with Georges, but her mind with the colonel. She forced a troubled smile. She wanted justice done quickly. But, perhaps the colonel was allowing Pressigny, a little fish, to remain on the line as bait to catch a bigger one. The better she had come to know the dissolute young man, the less she believed he could have killed her stepfather in cold blood. If he were somehow involved, he must have been led by another, much stronger person.

“I shall see at least one of his protectors tomorrow,” she said, “Monsieur Robert LeCourt.”

“And I'll keep an eye on you.” He yawned, then apologized, muttering he'd better take up his post again outside in the corridor.

She stared at him. Lines of fatigue fissured his face. Her eyes moistened. “I don't want you standing out there all night!” She tried to sound exasperated. “You can have this room.” She brought bedding into the parlor, spread it out on the floor, and bid him goodnight. Michou slipped away to her room, smiling, clearly relieved Georges would guard the door.

As Anne walked to her bedroom, she felt Georges' eyes upon her. She stopped and slowly turned, calling to mind his concern for her, his standing guard outside her room. He slouched on the bedding, his back against the door, his shoulders slumped forward. She met his eyes. He sat up, expectant. She started. From deep within, the realization suddenly dawned on her that Georges had become a true friend and partner, filling the place in her heart that Antoine had once held. “Sleep well, dear Georges,” she whispered with a tired smile. “Tomorrow will be a long day.” His tired face broke out in a crooked smile.

***

Her head buried in a pillow, her brain fogged with sleep, Anne heard a voice at a great distance telling her to rise. She rolled over and rubbed her eyes. Georges was standing in the open doorway in livery of silver and blue, a powdered wig on his bald head. “Good God!” she croaked, waving him out. She grabbed for a robe.

As he retreated into the parlor, a maid brushed by him with warm milk, coffee, and bread, announcing breakfast. She stopped abruptly in the doorway to the bedroom, staring at Anne, at her bed, at Georges. “Put down the tray,” Anne exclaimed with heat, and pointed to a low table near the door.

Hoping to clear her mind, she shuffled to the wash stand and splashed water on her face.

Georges was soon at the door again telling her to hurry up. “It's past eight!”

She flicked water at him. He ducked back into the parlor. Peering into a mirror, she combed a spiky mop of thick blond hair. Shadows lay under her eyes.