The Orphan's Tale (57 page)

The man was young and open
-hearted. Malet was older, and wiser far beyond his years, with the control born of years of strife. He could make Saint-Légère look like a fool if he wished.

Or, since he was the Provisional Prefect, he could arrange the man's exile to a far prefecture.
Why, the Prefect of Puy de Dome, headquartered in Clermont, to the south, owed him a considerable favor, and he would be more than happy to repay it by burying an obscure Junior Inspector. Nothing could be easier.

Malet's heart rebelled even as he toyed with the thought.
He remembered how Saint-Légère had stood before him and detailed his constructive demotion at Guerin's hands for his refusal to accept a bribe. To do such a thing to anyone would be a trick worthy of Constant Dracquet.

And
there was, as well, the possibility that Elise loved Charles de Saint-Légère. He had seen the letter she had written him sitting openly on the mantel. What had been in the letter? In hurting the man, Malet might well hurt the lady, and that was unthinkable. But did she love him?

He thought back to their embrace along that twisting street near the
Butte. With the memory of her alive and passionate in his arms, her lips against his, the words she had spoken, he could have no doubt of her feelings for him. Could he?

None at all.
Malet released his breath in a long sigh and sat back. None at all, unless -

Suddenly his certainty crumbled.
Out of sight, out of mind - wasn't that the old adage? What if she really loved Saint-Légère? What if she had only forgotten her feelings for the man? It was far-fetched, but it was a possibility, and it had to be faced. Malet could not win her by a trick.

What should he do then?

He put his hand up to the letter. The possibility of throwing it out the window occurred to him, but he dismissed the thought. Even if the act itself were not despicable, Saint-Légère would be writing again. Was Malet to intercept each letter?

There was, after all, only one thing to do.

              **  **  **

Elise was sitting quietly in the salon as he came in.
She looked up and saw him, and her entire face seemed suddenly to glow. She abandoned all pretense of decorum and hurried forward to take his hands, laughing and crying at once while Yvette looked on with a wide, relieved smile.

"
Paul!" she said, "I was so worried! You're all right, then? No one would tell me anything about you! Tell me you aren't hurt!" She took his face between her hands and scanned him before she kissed his cheek.

"
They were under orders," he said. "I am sorry. I didn't think you would worry - "

"
Not worry!" she repeated, holding him at arm's length. "Darling! How could you say that? Let me look at you! Why, you're exhausted! Are you hurt?"

"
Not at all," he answered with a smile. "To all intents and purposes Dracquet is gone. He will insult you no more."

"
And menace you no more," Elise said. She collected herself and released him. "You need sleep," she said. "Look at you: you're obviously worn out! Come sit down. Have you eaten?"

"
I don't remember," Malet said. He seemed somehow detached, as though he were speaking to her from a distance and observing her reaction.

"
I will get you some food," said Yvette.

"
Thank you, Yvette," said Elise. "Sit down, Paul, and stop looking at me like that. You really are tired, I see. Tell me how it went."

Malet slowly reached into the breast of his jacket and took out the letter.
"This came for you," he said as he offered it to her.

She took it, looked at it, and set it aside.
"What is the matter with you?" she demanded. "I ask if you are hurt and you say no and give me letters, and then stare at me! Answer me, Paul: are you hurt at all?"

He drew a slow breath and smiled, but the smile still had that distant quality that had troubled her.
"No, Elise," he said. "I wasn't wounded. Read the letter." His hand rose to lightly touch her cheek.

Elise looked at the letter as she covered his hand with her own and turned her face slightly to drop a kiss on his palm.
The letter was from Charles. She didn't understand why he wanted so urgently for her to read it, but she finally lifted the letter again.

"
Aren't you going to open it?" he asked.

She frowned at him and would have spoken, but Yvette came back at that moment with a bowl of stew and some fresh bread.

"There!" said Yvette. "Eat it all now. Alcide is bringing some wine for you, as well."

Malet nodded and tucked into the stew.

Elise opened the letter and read it. It was a response to the letter she had written the night she had gone to Montmartre with Malet. The answer was what she had expected. Charles had always been, and would always be, a perfect gentleman. She folded the letter again with a smile and looked up to find Malet watching her.

He looked down at his stew the moment she met his gaze, and finished it easily enough, but when he had finished, he rose, checked his watch and said,
"I must return to the Prefecture, just for a moment. I have remembered something I must do before morning, and it is a matter of some urgency."

CALLING THE TRAVELER HOME

Malet looked up at the Prefecture, drew a deep breath, and crossed the inner courtyard to the door.
The Officer of the Day was Camille Vacherin, a younger constable with a smiling face and the graceful, easy manners of an aristocrat.

Vacherin raised his head as Malet entered the double doors.
His expression's habitual warmth broadened into a smile as he recognized Malet, but he dipped his pen into the pot of ink before him and said formally, "Good evening, M. Chief Inspector. May I see your card?"

Malet took the card from his waistcoat pocket, waited while it was duly examined, and then signed the logbook.
He pocketed the card and then doffed his hat.

"
It's late, Monsieur," said Constable Vacherin. "If you haven't dined yet, there's coffee here. May I fetch you a cup?"

Malet shook his head.
"No," he said. "I won't have time to drink it. I have a message to write up; it must go out with the evening's dispatches to the Bois de Boulogne."

"
Just as well you came, then," said Vacherin. "The courier came early. I will ask him to wait for you."

Malet thanked him and went back to the Prefect's offices.
He accepted the Chamberlain's escort with a smile, declined another offer of coffee and directed Clerel to close the door behind him.

He looked around the room and then went to the Prefect's desk and sat down.
A gold-tipped pen of carved agate lay before the crystal inkstand. The drawers were well stocked with heavy paper bearing the crest of the French Police, and a lump of sealing wax.

He set the wax in the desk
-top crucible, lit the lamp beneath it, and then centered a sheet of paper on the desk. He examined the point of the pen, flicked at a speck of dried ink, and then uncapped the inkwell and dipped the pen in the ink.

And
then he paused, thinking once more of Elise. She had been so warm and vibrant in his arms that night. And yet she had written to Saint-Légère. He owed it to her, to give her a choice. And it was possible that, faced with Saint-Légère, she might choose against him, and she would be lost to him forever.

In Paul Malet's world, a gentleman renounced a lady's friendship when she married.
He risked jeopardizing the happiness of her marriage if he did not. He had no conscious thought of renunciation or sacrifice. He only knew that he would willingly do all that lay within his power to make her happy, even though the price might be his own happiness.

The ink had dried on the pen; he reached into the breast of his waistcoat and took out his handkerchief to wipe the tip of the pen.
A square of daintily embroidered lawn and lace fell out. Elise's handkerchief, which he had found in his coat pocket at some point during the past night. He had forgotten.

He smoothed the delicate fabric over the blotter and gazed down at it.
It smelled of verbena, Elise's perfume. He raised it to his lips with a smile, and in his mind his lips were touching hers.

He had grown to love her so quietly, so gently, and he had been too concerned with chasing criminals and observing the proprieties to plead his love for her.
And yet, he thought with an oddly humble sense of wonder, she had come to love him in spite of everything. For, after all, it was she who had spoken first.

He folded the handkerchief, his fingertips gently smoothing the petal of an embroidered rose as though he were touching her cheek, as he had done just that night.

He dipped the pen once more, drew the sheet of paper forward, and wrote:

Paris 

17 October, 1833

Bois de Boulogne
Constabulary

MathieuRonsard, commandant

M. Ronsard,

Circumstances in
Paris require that Inspector Charles de Saint-Légère return to his own arrondissement no later than Tuesday, 22 October, 1833.

Kindly make the necessary arrangements at once.

Paul V. Malet

Provisional Prefect of Police

He carefully blotted the note, scanned it, then folded it into a neat packet. He lifted the crucible, poured the wax along the seam, waited for it to cool slightly, and then set the seal of the Prefect in the wax. It was done. He would see what happened. In all fairness to Elise, he had to offer her a choice.

He looked down at the handkerchief and smiled again, a softened, tender smile.
He thought he knew what the choice would be.

His sword
-belt lay across the chair beside the desk where he had left it when he went to speak with the Minister of Police that afternoon. He rose, donned his coat, and buckled the belt over it. His gloves lay on the corner of the desk; he pulled them on and smoothed the cuffs. He took up his hat and the dispatch and went out of his office, pausing to check his watch and then open the back case and smile at the small watercolor portrait of Elise that he had taken from her portfolio and carefully set inside.

Constable Vacherin was approaching him; he paused with a smile.
"Is it ready, M. Chief Inspector?" he asked. "I was coming to get it."

"T
hank you, Vacherin," said Malet. "I was going out at any rate. Yes, here it is. Thank the courier for me, if you please; it was good of him to wait."

"
I certainly shall," said Vacherin, accepting the message from Malet. "And you: will you be returning to your lodgings at that inn now?"

Malet's mouth tipped oddly, but his voice was very level as he answered.
"No, I think not. Not just yet. Did you read of that killing by the Pont de l'Alma? It's a thoroughly nasty business, and I have a theory... I want to look the place over by night. If anyone should inquire, tell him that I am out - and send this note to the Rose d'Or, if you please. I don't want them to worry when I don't return."

Constable Vacherin nodded and escorted Malet to the door.
"You'll be careful, then, sir," he said.

"
Always," Malet replied. He passed through the doors, closed them behind him, and paused to look down along the Boulevard du Palais.

The vast bulk of the Conciergerie lay directly before him with its sharply gabled roof and conical towers.
The immense structure seemed strangely dark, even though the street lamps had just been lit. Malet looked away toward the river. The relatively warm day had led to a slight fog at nightfall; Malet could see wisps of mist rising from the river below the Pont St. Michel.

He raised his head and stepped forward into the darkness and the mist.

THE BASTARD AND HIS LADY

Elise de Clichy frowned at the embroidery frame before her. Malet's message had unsettled her; it was useless to pretend that she would accomplish anything this evening. The message in itself had not been disturbing, but its undercurrents had been palpable. She took the note from her pocket and reread it:

The Prefecture

17 October, 1833

Elise de Clichy

Proprietress

The Rose d'Or

18th arrondissement

Madame:

The pressures of my position make it necessary that I remain on duty for an indefinite time. I beg that you will not trouble yourself awaiting my return.

Believe me, etc.