The Orphan's Tale (49 page)

This thought actually had him singing as he strolled into the stableyard of the Rose d
'Or, and he hesitated only a moment before going into the stable to visit Saint-Légère's new chestnut stallion and feed some barley-sugar candies to Brutus, the big black gelding at the end of the aisle, who nickered to him whenever he passed.

He chatted pleasantly with Claude, who was busy oiling tack, and then turned to go into the inn by the kitchen entrance.
Once inside, he was confronted by a table filled with pink-iced sugar cakes, obviously baked for a special occasion.

Sugar was expensive, and the prisons of
France, never lavishly budgeted even in the best of times, seldom had occasion to use any of it. As a result Malet, like many who grew up dependent on the largesse of the government, had a sweet tooth. The ranks of sugar cakes seemed numberless, and he thought that one would hardly be missed.

He came closer to the table, cast a critical eye over the sweets, and carefully selected the largest, pinkest cake, which he proceeded to eat with swiftness and economy.

"M. l'Inspecteur!" said a voice behind him. "You aren't very particular what you eat, are you?"

Malet jumped.
He turned and saw Yvette surveying him with a dishcloth in one hand and a martial glint in her eye.

Having been caught red
-handed, he decided that it would be best to brazen out the situation. He chewed and said, carefully, "I certainly am particular - this one looked to be the best of the lot!"

"
Shame on you! Those were for Louise Roissy's wedding! I just had enough to go around! Now look at it! I will have to bake another batch!"

"
Can I have one of them, too?" Malet asked blandly.

Yvette, who accorded him the same exasperatedly affectionate treatment she gave her many brothers, stared into his eyes for the space of time it took to draw a deep breath, then clouted him with her dishrag.
"Of all the insufferable - you're worse than any of my brothers - !"

"
But you'll have some extra," Malet said, dodging another blow of the dishrag. "I will be saving you from having people fighting over the leftovers!" The dishrag caught him on the shoulder. "Now do stop it, Yvette, please! - you'll give me a concussion - and I wounded!"

She swatted him with the dishcloth once more, her face alight with laughter that pinkened her cheeks and made her blue eyes almost sapphire in the reflected warmth.
"Get out of here, then, you rascal!" she exclaimed. "What a brat you must have been!"

The door thumped shut.
Malet looked in the direction of the sound and suddenly smiled.

Inspector Plougastel stood in the doorway beside Elise with a piece of paper in his hand.
He was staring from Malet to Yvette with the expression of one who does not know whether to laugh or hurry to the rescue. Elise was chuckling.

Malet
's smile deepened. "Georges!" he said, "Come in! I see you have already met Mme. de Clichy. Come meet the poor lady whom I have just robbed, all unwittingly! What can I do to make amends?"

Yvette took a closer look at the man who was approaching them.
He was pleasant-looking and, fortunately, quite unalarming. She relaxed and smiled a little.

"Y
vette Franchotte," said Malet, "Permit me to present to you Senior Inspector Georges-Corneille Plougastel of the 12th arrondissement. M. Plougastel is my second-in-command. Georges, Mlle. Franchotte is the second of the two landladies of this inn. I can vouch for the excellence of this establishment: you can see for yourself the charm of its two proprietresses."

Plougastel looked sharply at Malet, but he caught nothing of the brightly intent look that usually attended his friend
's introductions. If anything, the man looked demure. He relaxed a little and smiled at Mlle. Franchotte before bowing over her hand. "I am very sorry to hear that you have wronged ladies of this quality, my dear Paul, however unwittingly it may have been," he said. "Shall I plead in your behalf?"

"
I will throw myself on their mercy," said Malet.

Elise, who had been watching them, looked up just in time to catch the bright, intent expression that he had missed.

But Plougastel had just straightened and was smiling at Malet. "I bring you a message that I think you'll find very interesting."

**  **  **

"Confide in me, M. Chief Inspector Guardian Angel Paul Malet," said Elise later that evening. "What's the game?"

They were sitting in the large salon, in companionable silence, she with her embroidery, he reading Le Journal des Debats in front of a dancing fire.
It was a mark of their growing comfort together that they often felt no need to speak.

Malet
's rare smile flashed for a moment as he set down the paper. The message from Michaud had been most gratifying, bearing out, as it did, the information received from the child informant. It had also shed some light on the question of what a 'malor' was, and brought Malet's mind back to Rosalie's suspicions concerning the Duke of Rochester. He had made a list of items to pursue in the case of Constant Dracquet, and was now enjoying a very placid evening beside Elise.

The smile flashed and vanished, leaving him as soberly sedate as ever.
"'Game'?" he asked.

"
Don't play the innocent with me," said Elise. "I saw that smile as you were introducing them. Who is that man?"

"
I told you," said Malet, taking up the paper again. "He's my second-in-command." He eyed her annoyed expression and said, "There's no game, I promise. And as for Georges Plougastel, I consider him one of the finest men in Paris."

"
Indeed?"

"
Yes, indeed. Listen: he's forty years old and a widower, with three children. His wife was a lovely lady, and he made her happy while she was alive. I miss her still... She made me promise, as she was dying, to look after Georges. He's the soul of honor, a true gentleman - "

"
He certainly appears so - but I don't fancy you as a matchmaker."

"
I am not playing matchmaker!" Malet objected. "He came here - strictly in the line of business! - and happened to meet Yvette. I can hope, can't I? That's all I am doing."

"
You shouldn't play with peoples' hearts," said Elise. "You could hurt someone!"

"W
here's the harm in a casual introduction, for heaven's sake?" Malet asked. "How could anyone possibly be hurt by that? It could be a good thing for both of them. Georges is a fine man, and a very gentle one. His children - delightful youngsters, all three of them! - need a mother. Yvette's a motherly sort, and young enough still to bear children of her own to fuss and cluck over. She could be very happy with him. It could be a good thing for both of them."

"
Yvette was...hurt very badly once," said Elise.

"
Raped, probably," Malet said, shaking out the paper and folding it again.

"
What?" Elise demanded.

"
I beg your pardon.  I speak too bluntly at times, but it's obvious to me. She's terrified of men who carry weapons. That's why I never wear my sword around her, and I never let her see my pistols. I am certain she was at least cruelly abused, and probably she was raped. I think I know when it happened, too."

His expression was sad for a moment.
It cleared and he looked up at Elise again. "Don't worry, Elise," he said. "I was born and raised in a prison, true: but I learned not to condemn victims simply because someone committed a crime against them. Yvette is a lady, no matter who raised a hand to her. I only wish I could have been there to stop it."

"
Then you understand my concern.  How would you like it if M. Plougastel took it into his head to start presenting you to eligible ladies - surely he, having experienced a happy marriage, would think that it would be perfect for you, and attempt a match!"

Malet
's mouth tipped oddly. "I don't think he could," he said.

"
There are plenty of ladies to steal your heart," Elise said.

"
Maybe I don't have a heart to steal," Malet said.

Elise looked intently at him and then smiled and reached over to take his hand.
"Oh no, my dear friend," she said. "I don't believe that at all."

He looked down at their hands with a reserved smile.
"Then perhaps my heart is no longer mine to give," he said quietly. "And so all matchmaking is useless."

THE PROVISIONAL PREFECT

HAS DEALINGS WITH A FIEND

Larouche grinned and waved at the cook and went out the door. He walked jauntily along, whistling through his teeth. It was a splendid day, he had just eaten a good lunch, courtesy of Dracquet's cook, his whistling was going very well, and he had a loose tooth, just to the right of his two front teeth, that had reached that very satisfying stage where it can be manipulated with the tip of the tongue, to the disgust of passers-by. In addition to all these felicities, he had the added joy of knowing that he was about to put another nail in Dracquet's coffin by writing a third note to the police.

              He had felt a twinge of guilt at one point, and it had been enough to make him consider calling a halt to his vendetta. No more. Dracquet, seeing him today, had ordered him from the premises in very rude terms.

'
Misbegotten vagabond'!

The cook had sneaked him back in through the servants
' entrance and fed him some delicious potato and leek soup as well as the remains of the past night's dessert.

The cook had given Larouche all the news, along with the saddening item that he had given his notice.

"There's too much afoot, and I don't like it," he had said. "I just got an offer from one of the rich folk in the Faubourg St. Germain. He's eaten here, and he wants me to be under-chef. I have agreed to take the situation."

He had smiled at Larouche
's troubled expression, rumpled his hair, and added, "It's not the end of the world, scamp. I will be at No. 12, Rue De Varenne. You'll just have to come and visit me, that's all."

Larouche had left, saddened.
His mood hadn't lasted for long. He had stowed away on a luxurious carriage heading southeast. Through some skillful changes, he had managed to arrive in the 2nd arrondissement in front of the classical temple that was the Bourse. North of it, part of the rabbit-warren of arcaded walkways, was the Passage des Panoramas. Now Larouche was knocking at the door of the stationer on that street.

"
I will sweep your sidewalk for a sheet of paper and a pen and ink," he said to the man who opened the door.

The man laughed at him.
"Our paper's expensive," he said.

Larouche shrugged.
"Give me a used sheet."

"
And so are our pens."

Larouche grinned up at him and wiggled his tooth with his tongue.
"Then loan me one," he said.

"D
one and done," said the man. "Here's the broom. And here - " he held up a washed sheet of parchment, " -is your payment when you're done. And in God's name, boy, stop fiddling with that tooth while you're here. You'll scare away the customers!"

Larouche nodded and started sweeping.

              **  **  **

Ten minutes later he was sitting down at a desk in the back of the shop with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, the pen in his fist, and the sheet of parchment before him.

I have riten a masage twise befor. Draquett is haveing tofs com frome angland this tusday but he has changed the date to wen -

He stopped.
That didn't look right. There should be a 'D' there. He licked the word off and tried again:

- wedenday -

That looked bad, too. Père Louis had showed him how to write the word once. Why couldn't he remember it? He crossed it out and wrote again:

- wendesday becos of winds. They are guttesicke and canot come til then thogh the princes wil be their soon. Her name is victoria.

The tofs are named
hamilton and courtenay, and cherwill -

Larouche was pleased with that information. He had had to go into Dracquet's study and root through his papers. Dracquet had come in unexpectedly, and Larouche had dived into a cabinet and hidden for over an hour. It had given him a chance to listen to the man as he gave orders to two others concerning the affair of the mysterious 'toffs'.

The orders had been frighteningly explicit: travel by private coach to
Calais where His Majesty's private yacht lay at anchor. Once at Calais, the man was to deliver a message to two seamen employed aboard the yacht. The boat was due to sail in two weeks' time to Southampton, where Princess Victoria and her mother, the Duchess of Kent, would board her for the princess' journey to France.