The Orphan's Tale (51 page)

The other man clicked his heels, spun about, and stalked off in the other direction, past Larouche.

Larouche shrank back against the fence and watched as Monseigneur turned in the opposite direction and left. He waited until Monseigneur had gone half a block before going after him with soft footsteps.

Where were they heading tonight?
The river? Larouche approved: the river was one of his favorite places.

He followed as quietly as he could, mimicking the man's strong, even walk, so different from the quick, scurrying gait of native Parisians.

They were following the Rue de Rivoli, heading along beside the Tuileries gardens, now a soft blur of lamplight upon pale walkways. The vast, dark bulk of the Louvre lay before them on the right. Carriages clattered past, intent on the Comedie-Francaise, lying off to their left. Monseigneur threaded his way through the tangle with a magnificent heedlessness that Larouche, who was in considerably less danger of being run over, envied.

Monseigneur turned right at the Rue du Louvre and followed it to the Pont des Arts, where he paused to look east toward the Île de la Cité as it rose above the
Seine like a great frigate at anchor. After gazing for a moment, he went to the middle of the bridge and leaned back against the railing with his arms folded behind him.

Larouche weighed matters, then drew his oversized cloth cap farther down over his eyes and went after him, whistling through his teeth.

Monseigneur didn't move, though Larouche knew that he was watching. The man seemed to be aware of everything that happened around him.

Well, there was no law against walking along a bridge and whistling, so Larouche walked along and whistled, his hands jammed in his pockets.
When he came abreast of Monseigneur, he paused and looked the man over, aware that he was being surveyed in his turn.

"
Well?" Monseigneur said finally. He hadn't moved.

Larouche hesitated.
He could greet Monseigneur and introduce himself, and be the recipient, possibly, of a snub, or he could just stand quietly and enjoy the evening, as every citizen had the right to do.

He leaned against the railing beside Monseigneur and looked up past the double row of bright brass buttons on the fine black cloth of the coat to the eyes that were fixed on him from beneath the brim of the hat.
"Nice weather we have been having," he said.

Monseigneur's gaze seemed to intensify, then he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "You're quite right. It's been a splendid day." His voice was softer than Larouche remembered, and he caught the touch of an accent that he hadn't noticed before, but then Monseigneur wasn't trying to shout over Larouche's curses now, either.

The man was standing quite passively, still relaxed against the railing, his head slightly lifted in the breeze that came along the river.
He was showing no impatience, and he was even smiling a little.

Larouche thought it was somehow fitting that he, who had helped to provide the weapons for the fight, should be facing Monseigneur, who would be doing the fighting.

But now what to say?

Possibilities presented themselves.

You speak with an accent. Where do you come from? That would probably lead to a snub.

I am
glad those assassins didn't kill you at Montmartre. No, Monseigneur might wish to bring him in for questioning.

Is my information useful to you?
The same would go for that one: Monseigneur would want to question him.

Larouche paused and considered saying, Would you like to come with me and eat some supper?
He wished he could say it, but he was afraid of what would happen if Monseigneur said he would. Where would they go from there?

None of them sounded right.
It was no use. What could he say, after all, to this high-ranking cop? What could the two of them possibly have in common other than the fact that they lived in the same city?

He looked up from under the bill of the cap and said,
"You got a sou you can spare, Mister?"

Monseigneur's expression altered from its calm smile.
He seemed to be trying to pierce through the thick cloth cap and see the face beneath. His mouth twisted slightly, but he inclined his head, took out his billfold, opened it - and then closed it and put it back in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He reached, instead, into his watch-pocket and took out a small leather change purse. He opened it, shook its contents into his hand, frowned down at the coins for a moment, and then selected two.

"
Here," he said, offering them.

Larouche took them and nodded.
"Thanks, Mister," he said.

Monseigneur returned the nod.
"But, really, it is I who should thank you, son," he said softly.

Larouche put the coins in his pocket without looking at them and pushed away from the railing.
"Well," he said, "So long, Mister. It's been nice talking to you."

"
And to you, as well," said Monseigneur with the hint of a bow. He was using the formal mode of address such as he might use with another of his age and rank.

That made Larouche pause.
He looked up at Monseigneur and saw that he had pulled off his right glove and was holding out his hand. Larouche hesitated, then shyly wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers and shook hands with Monseigneur.

He wished that he could say something else, but there was nothing else to say.
Instead, he took his hat off and looked full into the man's eyes for a moment before he finally left. He headed south across the Pont des Arts toward the Institut de France.

"
Please be careful, child," Monseigneur said quietly after him.

Larouche turned, but there was nothing to say, and so he merely bowed and then continued on his way.
Monseigneur didn't move, but Larouche was aware of his gaze following him along the street.

He looked at the coins when he got to the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Monseigneur had given him two gold Napoleons.

             
**  **  **

Paul Malet watched the boy leave, frowning a little.
He had been aware of the child following him from the British Embassy; he had stopped at the Pont des Arts partly because he wanted to see who he was and prove or disprove several theories that he had about the child's identity. He decided, seeing the boy, that he had been right: this was the mysterious young informant who had cracked the case for him.

It isn
't often that one comes face to face with one's own ghost, but that child could have been him at seven, sharp-eyed, pinched with hunger, and a little furtive. It had taken courage for the boy to gather his information as he had. The gold was a sort of recognition of that courage as well as a salute from vanquished to victor, for Malet knew now that this boy was the stone-thrower. And the stone-thrower had saved his life.

He sighed and took off his hat.
The child had wanted to say something: he wondered what it had been.

THE EVE OF THE HUNT

Larouche's third note had been delivered on Monday.
Malet acted on it immediately. Dracquet's movements were carefully watched; Malet personally reviewed all information and sent summaries on to Count d'Anglars.

The British Embassy confirmed its support of the actions of the French Police in this matter, and Sir Robert Peel asked to be kept advised of developments.

All the information received confirmed the report of the child informer. The meeting would take place on Wednesday, and the Police were ready to move in at a moment's notice.

In the midst of all this activity, to the surprise of all who were interested in the actions of the Police High Command, Count d
'Anglars announced his plans for a formal dinner party on Wednesday night, and issued invitations to all the top police, army and government officials in Paris.

On Tuesday afternoon, Georges Plougastel brought over a final message from Michaud.

              **  **  **

I have looked into the order placed by Monsieur and find that the originally projected delivery date is too soon.
I will be unable to bring the goods to him until Wednesday, probably at some time early in the evening.

I understand that some assistance will be available: three men will be there to assist, if needed, but they would be best pleased if word does not get around concerning their availability, since it could lead to inquiries on the part of those not willing to pay them or avail themselves of their services.

If Monsieur is interested in the date given for delivery, he would be best advised to speak to the interested parties on Wednesday.

I am told that there will be a large number of people present with varying types of equipment, all skilled in their use.
Monsieur would be wise to plan accordingly.

In addition, the matter at hand will be of extremely pressing urgency, concerning conflict as it will, so they may very well be displeased at any interruption, especially one man of foreign birth.
Nevertheless, I have confirmed the date, and it will be Wednesday.

If Monsieur desires to purchase or arrange the delivery of any further goods, I must refer him to my various colleagues in Paris, with whom he is no doubt more familiar than I.
I have made arrangements to return to the south, there to retire, and will be maintaining no ties with my former colleagues.

I thank Monsieur for his considerable kindness, and beg leave to extend to him my deepest respect.

                Joseph Michaud

Malet set the note on the table before him and gazed unseeingly out the window onto the street. Michaud was being very circumspect, but it didn't take much imagination to understand what he was saying.

Everything was ready.
If all went as it ought, Dracquet would soon be in custody, and Malet would be leaving the Rose d'Or. He would then be able to address Elise without any fear of offending or compromising her. He drew a deep breath and folded the message away.

He rose and paced across his rooms.
He was restless. It always happened before he went into action, and this time was no different from the times in Spain or Russia or Germany. He had to get out of doors, to stand beneath the sky and feel the night wind against his face. His bodyguard had gone home, but what of it? Malet could take care of himself, and both Michaud and the child informer had reported that Dracquet had pulled in all his muscle. There was no fear of attack that night.

He swung his coat about his shoulders and hesitated over his hat.
He shrugged finally. For once, he would not wear one. His sword was nearby, propped against the wall; he left it there and instead took his two pistols, made certain that they were loaded and primed, and then put them in the pockets of his coat with some extra cartridges and percussion caps.

He stepped out into the hallway.
If he turned left he would be heading toward the main stairway. A right turn brought him to the servants' stair, which took him down behind the kitchens and out by the stables. He descended the stairs and paused at the bottom to listen. He could hear Elise's chuckle, then Georges' light baritone responding.

He smiled to himself and went out the door.

The night sky opened above him, vast and still. If he stood quietly and waited he might hear, distant and clear, the music of the spheres.

The music of the spheres!
He hadn't understood what that meant when he was a child. He had thought that the spheres - and by them he meant the stars - chimed as the wind blew across them, and sometimes he could hear the high, distant, sweet ringing that was less a sound than the echo of a longing in his own heart. It was still there, but the music faded if he listened too carefully.

He took a deep breath of the cool night air and stepped onto the street, where he hailed a passing fiacre and had the man drive him to the Place de la Bastille.
Along the way, he watched the passing blur of lighted windows moving past the windows of the cab.

Once at the Place de la Bastille, he paid the cabby and then paused to gaze at the silhouette of his headquarters before following the Boulevard Bourdon along the quiet, shining waters of the Port de Plaisance toward the Quai Henri IV.

He began to sing, exuberant snatches of tunes that suited the lift in his steps. What a magnificent night! What a splendid sky above him, still bright with the last traces of sunset! How beautiful the city was now, glowing with street lamps and the soft shine of lamplight through lace-curtained windows!

Passers-by smiled and greeted him, and he returned their salutations with a smile.
All was well with him: the night was beautiful, those he loved were happy, he was in splendid health, and tomorrow held the prospect of an excellent hunt.

He was at the Pont de Sully now, with the Île St. Louis before him, the windows of its tall houses glowing in the night.
He crossed to the island and strolled along the tree-lined Quai d'Anjou, looking up at the night sky through the lace-like tracery of branches. Now he was at the Quai de Bourbon, approaching the Pont Durosse, his favorite of the old stone Seine bridges.