The Montmartre Investigation (11 page)

‘Although it does not operate here as strictly as it does at Le Mirliton, censorship is the enemy of the artist. Our colleagues in the theatre and in the
café-concerts
experience it every day. That is why I have dedicated my poem “Anastasia” to them.'

He began to declaim:

‘Is that him – your Personality of the Parisian Nightlife?' whispered Victor.

‘No, I don't know him. Shh, listen to the poem.'

Louis Dolbreuse raised his sombrero in response to the laughter and applause, then went over to a spectator in an Inverness cape and muttered something to him. Victor prayed that Dolbreuse would not notice him; he wanted to draw a veil over what he had been doing the night before.

‘Montmartre, granite breast at which the idealistic youth come to suckle! Montmartre, the centre of the universe! Never will you have heard a work like the one we are about to admire!' bellowed Salis.

A pianist sat down at the keyboard.

‘And here is our maestro, Charles de Sivry, and the famous author and narrator Maurice Donnay!'

‘That's who I have to caricature,' said Tasha when a young man with horsy features and a pointed moustache joined the composer.

‘You won't see the illustrious Henri Rivière,
²⁰
creator of the figures and plays of light that are about to enchant you; he operates behind the scenes. Prepare to dream; to be carried off to far off places with a Gallic poem that is mystical, socialist and absurd, depicted in twenty tableaux and dedicated to our master of all, Paul Verlaine!'

The lights went down and the piano began a bright little tune. The curtain opened to reveal a pale, circular screen. Steel scenery mounted on frames appeared against this background, which was gradually filled with a sky shining with stars. A coppery light revealed Paris and the terrace of the Institut, with the statue of Voltaire in the middle. An astonished silence gave way to gasps and whispering. The statue of Voltaire had just jumped from its pedestal to go and greet a poet called Terminus. Ruined and discouraged, Terminus threw himself into the Seine, dragging Voltaire into the depths of the river. Their shadows, bathed in the clear light of the moon, overhung the buildings, the rocks and the trees, as they were buffeted by the wind. In a toneless, funereal voice Maurice Donnay read a poem by Chopinhauer:
Adophe ou Le jeune homme triste
,

As the poem progressed through Adolphe's stages of disillusionment, a man came and sat down next to Victor. Turning slightly, Victor recognised Louis Dolbreuse.

‘So, dear friend, you're doing a tour of the nightspots of the capital? Yesterday Le Moulin-Rouge, today Le Chat-Noir, a nicely spiced itinerary! Or perhaps you're still looking for Gaston Molina?'

‘I'm here for pleasure,' murmured Victor, disconcerted.

Tasha did not react, but her puzzled expression and slight frown did not bode well.

In the middle of the applause the lights came back on. Salis announced:

‘There will now be a half-hour interval! I hope Your Lordships will use it to imbibe some libations at ridiculously inflated prices!'

‘Can I buy you a drink on the ground floor?' proposed Dolbreuse. ‘Don't worry, it's just a beer served in a Madeira glass.'

‘I would…but I'm not here on my own.'

‘Oh! Mademoiselle or Madame is with you? The more the merrier…Have we met?'

‘I would have remembered,' replied Tasha. ‘Excuse me, I have to go and talk to Maurice Donnay.'

‘Exquisite,' pronounced Dolbreuse, leading Victor away. ‘A journalist?'

The guard room was packed. They succeeded in finding a seat under one of the iconic Steinlen posters dedicated to the feline race:
Apotheosis of Cats.

‘Drink, my friends, drink, it's your contribution to our artistic endeavours!' brayed Salis.

The man with the Inverness cape murmured something in Dolbreuse's ear and then melted into the crowd, a glass of bitter in his hand.

‘That's Navarre, an acquaintance who would be of interest to your lady friend. He's going to edit a literary review. For three months now he has been a regular at our soirées. He has good contacts at
L'Écho de Paris
and he's asked me to write some articles. Shall I introduce you to him?'

‘No need,' muttered Victor, anxious to know whether Tasha had picked up the reference to Le Moulin-Rouge.

Without waiting for Dolbreuse, he went back to take his seat and found Tasha just finishing a sketch of Maurice Donnay, an engineer fresh out of the École Centrale, but more attracted by poetry than industry.

Victor hoped he had shaken off Dolbreuse, but when the show ended at about midnight, as he followed Tasha into a sort of screened off area attached to the inside wall behind the stage, he glimpsed him at the back of the hall.

The cramped space contained ladders up to three platforms, one above the other, the first for musical instruments, the next for the stagehands who operated the discs of coloured glass and the highest reserved for the puppeteers. There were an impressive number of strings.

‘It's complicated, but we never make even the smallest mistake,' explained Henri Rivière, who reigned over his team like a captain over his sailors. ‘Everything must be done with extreme precision. You have to manoeuvre the three layers of zinc silhouettes at the same time and angle the mirrors so that they recreate a rising sun or a storm.'

Victor listened distractedly to the painter's explanations; he was observing Tasha. Had she heard what Dolbreuse had said?

‘How do you make the stars shine?' she asked.

‘By flapping a shutter in front of this box pierced with pin holes.'

‘And the flashes of lightning?'

‘Easy: you light paper dipped in saltpetre and then release it into the air.'

Victor's attention was caught by that word: saltpetre. He suddenly remembered the note found the previous night in Molina's cupboard:
sale pétriaire
. At the time the two words had seemed meaningless. But now he realised what they meant: the Hospice de la Salpêtrière, built on the site of Louis XIII's gunpowder arsenal.

They left Henri Rivière. Dolbreuse was hanging around, determined to offer them one for the road. They refused. Victor did not like the way Dolbreuse was looking at Tasha.

‘And did you solve Gaston Molina's cryptic message?'

‘No, I'm stumped, it makes no sense,' mumbled Victor.

‘Come on, make an effort!' said Dolbreuse.

Victor managed not to lose his temper, but he could not hide his exasperation. Dolbreuse took the hint and bowed, smiling.

‘Here come some friends less frightened at the prospect of a nightcap!' he declared, greeting several visitors who had just arrived in the guard room.

‘Jean Richepin, Jules Jouy, Xanrof,
²¹
Maurice Vaucaire, the flower of modern song,' explained Tasha. ‘And that one there, already drunk, do you recognise him?'

‘Verlaine,' responded Victor immediately, relieved to see that she did not seem to be in a vindictive mood.

But they had scarcely gone ten yards towards home when she turned on him.

‘Why didn't you tell me you were at Le Moulin-Rouge yesterday evening? Were you spying on me? Who is Gaston Molina? You accuse me of duplicity, but it's you who's leading a double life!'

He weathered a hail of stinging reproaches without flinching, as he stood rigidly, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. He was amazed to hear himself say:

‘I was simply trying to save a friend from embarrassment.'

‘A friend? Which one? Joseph? Kenji? You don't have any others.'

‘All right, I admit it; it was Jojo. I was worried he was going to do something stupid. He is in a furious rage with Boni de Pont-Joubert for marrying Valentine de Salignac, and he knew that Pont-Joubert was going to be at Le Moulin-Rouge last night. I followed him and succeeded in convincing him to go home and sleep off his rage.'

The words seemed to come to him of their own accord.

‘Did you see me with Lautrec?'

‘No, you know that I can't stand that kind of place. I left very quickly.'

‘And Gaston Molina?'

‘A relation of Boni. He sent Joseph a threatening note, ordering him not to see Valentine on any account; that's why Joseph was so angry. But I couldn't find Molina or Pont-Joubert.'

Victor was sweating in spite of the cold. He felt like a schoolboy digging himself deeper into trouble after a reprimand from his tutor. He had rarely reeled off so many lies. And, worst of all, Tasha would probably grill Joseph about it, and then he'd have to spill the beans in exchange for Joseph's complicity, thus involving him in this new investigation.

‘Tasha, are you angry with me?'

‘I am neither resentful nor jealous; you on the other hand…'

He silenced her with a kiss.

 

Boulevard de Strasbourg was buffeted by gusts of wind. Noémi Gerfleur had to hold tightly to her feathered turban as she hurried to the cabriolet waiting to take her home after her performance. Before getting in she studied the area around L'Eldorado. She held herself defiantly as she scrutinised the passers-by. Was the sender of the roses watching her from under a porch? She was obsessed with the idea that he would show himself sooner or later. Well, let him dare! If it were his intention to stir up old history, she would know how to receive him. She rapped on the frame of the hood and the coachman registered her signal. She sank back against the banquette and hummed a song from her childhood:

Her childhood had been difficult. Her mother and sister had died when she was five years old and her father, a miner, had been killed in June 1869 during the strikes of La Ricmarie. After that she had lived in Lyon with her aunt Suzanne Fourchon, a cook for a household of weavers, and had been started off in the art of spinning. She still remembered the boorish boy who used to take her to the
café-concerts
. The owner of the Taverne des Jacobins had noticed her pretty voice. She had rapidly acquired notoriety, and people travelled from far and wide to hear the vivacious Léontine Fourchon. When Élisa came along, she did not try to discover who the father was, and refused to be parted from the child:

She had split her existence in two, devoting her days to the little girl and performing in the evening. Later, she sent Élisa to boarding school, to the Veuillot sisters where piano, English and good manners were taught. At twenty-two years old she had been bursting with ambition. She knew she was seductive, she attracted men, she wanted to embrace life in the fullest possible way, broaden her horizons and become a lady…

The cabriolet was struggling on through the crush, but the noise of the traffic and the brouhaha of the spectators leaving the Théâtre Gymnase, where they had savoured
Numa Roumestan,
²²
failed to distract Noémi from her thoughts. Eight years, it had taken her eight years of effort, to draw up the plan that would buy her freedom. She had conceived a scenario without flaws, chosen the ideal dupe and promptly set about carrying out her plan. The results had exceeded her wildest expectations. And now the imbecile had raised his head again, putting her entire way of life at risk! She felt spied on, and as if actual blows had rained down on her. What a mistake to have given in to homesickness! She had been safe in London. What was he after? Did he hope to collect his share?

‘You can whistle for it my friend! You have no proof – if you think you'll make me talk, you're out of luck!'

A downpour had emptied the terrace of the Grand Café de Suède, and the Salle des Variétés was closing its doors. At the crossroads, inquisitive onlookers drawn to the spot where the body of an unknown woman had been found defaced by acid were flowing along the pavements, like a flock of stupid sheep. She despised them just as she despised the men bleating outside her dressing room. They should all be taken off to the abattoir – they were animals, lovers of fresh meat!

The cabriolet dropped her off near Passage des Panoramas. The rain was icy. She reached number 1, turning round as she went to check that no one was following her. The passage was deserted. She forced herself to climb the dark stairs. Mariette opened the door, yawning. As always, Noémi would have liked to order her to cover her mouth, but she desisted, too weary to try to instil manners in the girl who was so badly raised that nothing could cure her slovenly ways. She contented herself with asking for tea with milk and some buttered toast, and hastened to take refuge in her room.

The wallpaper depicted an infinity of downy mimosa petals, and amongst this excess of yellow, the rosewood furniture took on a sickly pallor. She let her cape fall to the ground and parted the saffron drapes at the window overlooking Boulevard Montmartre. There, opposite, beside the Musée Grévin, that man waiting about near a poster advertising a re-enactment of the Gouffé affair,
²³
was that him? No! A plump young miss on tottering high heels threw herself into his arms and led him off towards one of the restaurants lighting up the pavements.