Текст книги "The Devil in Montmartre. A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris"

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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“Is it true this is the toniest restaurant in Paris?” Betsy put the question to Sir Henry as they dined on Tournedos Rossini accompanied by an excellent Château Haut-Brion at the Maison Dorée. Immense chandeliers blazed with light; gilt cornices sparkled; Aubusson carpets cushioned the steps of modishly shod feet; salon paintings of gods, goddesses, fauns, and nymphs decorated richly papered walls; tables covered in crisp, dazzlingly white linen, set with the finest silver service, china, and crystal, displayed haute cuisine, the creations of master chefs served with the choicest wines from one of the world’s premier cellars. The terrace dining room was a study in Gilded Age opulence; the perfect setting for showing off Betsy’s Parisian haute couture and diamonds from the Rue de la Paix.

“Yes, it’s rather smart, isn’t it?” Sir Henry replied as he savored his Haut-Brion. “And you haven’t seen the private dining rooms, reserved for royalty, nobility, and the immensely rich.” His monocle magnified the wicked gleam in his eye as he pursued the subject in an insinuatingly hushed voice: “They’re the perfect venue for a discreet tête-à-tête between an emperor, king, or magnate and his paramour.”

Betsy picked insouciantly at her foie gras. “I’ll admit it’s impressive, but I wouldn’t put it above Delmonico’s or Sherry’s.”

Sir Henry laughed. “Do I detect a hint of Yankee pride?”

Betsy’s face glowed through her powder and her inhibitions had been lowered by three glasses of Haut-Brion. “I guess you do. Frankly, there’s nothing you have over here that, given time, we can’t equal or excel. Take my father, for example. We come from an old New England family, Mayflower genealogy and all. But we don’t rest on the laurels of our ancestors. Each generation made their own distinct contribution to the family fortune. My father gambled on railroads; he had a good turn of luck on Wall Street, and he never stood pat. When the bubble burst in the ’70s he sold short and doubled his fortune. Now I collect art, and my purchases have all appreciated in value.

“Marcia comes from a similar background, but her father wasn’t as shrewd or lucky as mine. He went under in the crash and subsequent depression. Fortunately, she possesses a singular talent that’s enabled her to climb to the top rung of her profession. But that’s just the marketplace acting according to the scientific rules of evolution set down by Darwin and Spencer—survival of the fittest.”

Sir Henry was taken aback; he was not accustomed to women injecting market economics and Darwinism into a politely intimate conversation, at least not in such a bluntly provocative manner. “I see your point, but isn’t that an awfully harsh way of viewing the world?”

Betsy smiled tipsily in a way that was both enticing and subtly calculated to put him off guard. Her words were ironic and an intended challenge to Sir Henry’s complacency. She might have viewed him as one of Oscar Wilde’s Liberals who counted among the Tories because he dined with them. “Oh it’s harsh, all right, but realistic and in some circles considered progressive. That’s why we dine at the Maison Dorée while others root through dustbins for a crust of stale bread or a scrap of rotten cheese.”

He found this discussion distasteful and at the same time disturbingly stimulating. Sir Henry felt a sudden urge to carry her off to one of the private rooms. He wanted to change the subject to regain his equilibrium, but he couldn’t help making an observation. “I think we’d better make some provision for those scrounging unfortunates. As Dickens warned, we oughtn’t to behave like bad old Scrooge prior to his Christmas conversion. Otherwise, those who, according to Mr. Spencer and others, are less fit to survive might rise up and cart off their betters to the guillotine. Remember, the Universal Exposition celebrates the Revolution’s centennial; Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and all that.”

“Ah, I’d almost forgotten the Fair’s historical reference to a utopian ideal. I was much more impressed by the exhibits of progress, the Tour Eiffel, the focus on improvements in hygiene and public sanitation, and especially the new wonders of our industrial age. Take the Daimler, for example. The automobile’s in its infancy, like the locomotive sixty years ago. That little motor car is a seed that will sprout and grow until it spreads out and towers like one of our giant California Sequoias. By the way, Marcia told me she’d love to ride in an automobile before she dies. Poor dear, I doubt she’ll get her wish.”

Betsy’s reference to Marcia’s condition provided a welcome opening for Sir Henry. “Oh yes, poor Marcia. I’m afraid the news of that unfortunate young woman’s disappearance and suspected murder has given her quite a turn, which leads me to a delicate subject. We needn’t pursue this now, but some thought should be given to the disposal of Marcia’s estate. As I recall, she never married and has no children, immediate family, or close relations with a claim?”

The reference to her friend’s estate had a sobering effect. Betsy may have been slightly fuddled with Haut-Brion and taken with Sir Henry’s good looks, charm, and elegant manner. She enjoyed sparring with him, asserting herself as a free-thinking American woman. But she was never a fool when it came to money, and she replied cautiously. “Not that I know of; I’ve never given the matter much consideration.”

“I see. Do you know if she has a will, or insurance? I believe she’s left quite a few valuable art works at your home in San Francisco.”

Betsy sensed a significant shift in the tenor of the conversation; their pleasant dinner deluxe had begun to resemble a high stakes poker game. “Marcia has kept a studio in my home for several years. I’ve purchased many of her most important works, as have other American collectors. And she now has a contract with Goupil to represent her in Europe. Why do you ask?”

Sir Henry attuned himself to her shifting mood. He played his next card carefully. “I fear that in the near future Marcia’s condition might deteriorate such that she may no longer be competent to make decisions concerning her medical treatment or the management of her estate. I’ve had considerable experience with such cases. Has she left many works in her studio that remain unsold; any written instruction as to their disposition?”

Betsy knew of several oils, watercolors, and drawings in her possession that could fetch several thousand dollars in the American market. He might indeed be offering sound advice as a physician and friend; on that account, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when it came to matters involving great sums of money, experience had taught her to play her cards close to her vest, even when you thought you were playing with friends. “Oh,” she remarked nonchalantly, “there might be a few, I suppose. I’ve never had them inventoried. At any rate, she’s going to England with Arthur. He’s always been savvy in business matters, and, should the need arise, I can easily put his solicitors in contact with mine.” She smiled disarmingly, and then casually placed a shot across his bow to keep him honest. “By the way, have you heard of Nellie Bly?”

He suspected a diversionary tactic. That was all right with Sir Henry; he’d play along—for the time being. “No, I haven’t. Sounds like a stage name. Is she an American actress?”

“Nellie Bly’s a nom de plume all right, but she’s not an actress. She’s a reporter for the New York World. Not long ago she went undercover, had herself committed, and wrote an exposé of the deplorable conditions at the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Her article raised quite a fuss in the States. There was a thorough investigation followed by a shake-up in the hospital administration and vast improvements in the living conditions and treatment of the inmates. Considering your practice, I thought you might have heard of it?”

Sir Henry smiled coolly. He decided to pay her back in kind. “No, in my practice I’ve had very few patients who required commitment, and in those cases they received the best private care. I haven’t heard of this American matter, but I’m certainly glad to learn that the conditions at the asylum were improved and the lunatics afforded better treatment. By the by, I wonder what your survival of the fittest chaps would make of it?”

“Oh, I suppose they’d consider it a problem in public sanitation and waste disposal.” She took a sip of Haut-Brion and eyed him with a suggestive smile.

Sir Henry returned her smile and said nothing. But for a moment Betsy evoked in him the troublingly erotic image of a fractious mare that needed breaking.

Achille met Lautrec in a smoke-filled, murky boîte off the boulevard near the foot of the hill. The inspector tried to dress and act inconspicuously but the moment he crossed the threshold everyone smelled cop. Consequently, the regulars departed furtively in ones and twos until no one was left except for Achille and the artist.

The proprietor, a squat, black-bearded bulldog of a man, served them with icy politeness; he was angry over the loss in business, but under no circumstances would he betray his contempt nor dare ask an inspector of the Sûreté to take his business elsewhere. And there was another factor adding to the proprietor’s indignation. He was a snitch, another strand in Rousseau’s underworld spider web. Achille had ordered Rousseau to lift the tail from Lautrec and concentrate efforts in shadowing Jojo. Rousseau complied reluctantly, and the widening rift between the two inspectors had become known on the street.

The proprietor grinned acrimoniously as he filled the two glasses with cognac and left the bottle. He had served them what was by far the best liquor in his stock, and he’d charge accordingly to compensate for his loss in the evening’s trade.

Lautrec sniffed his glass, sipped, rolled the fiery liquid round his tongue, and then swallowed. He winced. “They label this stuff ‘cognac.’ As to its age, I believe it entered our world about the time the Fair opened. If I were rating swill, I’d place this cognac manqué in the superior category, fit for the most discriminating pig. Thank you for buying it, and I trust you’ll pay our host generously. I’m one of his regulars and would like to remain in his good graces. Your unwelcome presence has managed to clear the premises in record time. A raging fire or a swarm of plague rats could not have done a better job.”

Achille shook his head and grimaced. “Yes, apparently I’m not the master of disguise. The great Vidocq must be turning in his grave. On the other hand, my unwished for appearance in this establishment has provided us with an opportunity to speak freely, so perhaps my disgrace is not complete.”

“I assume you wish to discuss your case. Have you made any progress?”

Achille scanned the room before speaking. They were indeed alone except for the proprietor, who appeared to be out of earshot and preoccupied behind the bar with the rearrangement and cleaning of bottles and glasses. Nevertheless, Achille leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “The investigation is ongoing. I’d like your assistance in arranging discreet, informal meetings with two persons acquainted with the victim whom I believe are known to you: Delphine Lacroix and Mademoiselle Brownlow, the American painter.”

Lautrec smiled shrewdly and rubbed his beard. “Delphine’s no problem. She models for me from time to time, and we can arrange a surreptitious tête-à-tête at my studio. Mlle Brownlow is a different matter. She’s quite ill, you know, and under Sir Henry Collingwood’s care. Her companion, Mlle Endicott, might prove to be an obstacle too. But there’s another way to approach her. She’s intimate with Arthur Wolcott, the American author. I’m acquainted with M. Wolcott and believe I can persuade him to act as go-between. Actually, he’s quite well known for his discretion in such matters. Is there a particular message you wish to convey to him?”

Achille thought a moment before replying. “Please tell him that it’s an urgent matter relating to my investigation. I’ll try not to impose too long on Mlle Brownlow. We should arrange to meet somewhere inconspicuous, away from the hotel, and without the knowledge of Sir Henry or Mlle Endicott.”

“Very well, Inspector; I’ll do what I can. Delphine’s dancing tomorrow evening at the Moulin Rouge. I’ll make arrangements for a meeting the following day. And I’ll get a message to M. Wolcott at his hotel. How shall I communicate with you? I fear if we keep meeting like this we’ll put the boîte out of business.”

“Have you access to a telephone?”

Lautrec laughed. “I’m afraid not, Inspector. I also lack the means of flying round the Eiffel Tower.”

Achille smiled, but in fact the issue of discreet and efficient communication was no joke. The proprietor would most likely report this meeting to Rousseau, especially if he thought there was something in it for him. That would alert Rousseau, leading him to believe that he was being excluded from an important part of the investigation; he might then put another tail on Lautrec, despite Achille’s orders to the contrary. He sipped brandy and gave the problem some thought. This clandestine meeting would be reported to Rousseau, but he did have a means of discreet communication going forward. Achille could trust Sergeant Rodin to convey a message without leaking its contents. At any rate, he was willing to take the risk. “Do you know Sergeant Rodin?”

“I’ve come across him a few times. Not a bad fellow, for a cop.”

“Very well, Monsieur. Pass all your messages through Rodin, but make it clear that they are for my eyes or ears only. I’ll contact the sergeant and explain the situation beforehand.”

Lautrec eyed Achille with a knowing grin. “Pardon me, Inspector, but might one infer from your precautions that there’s dissension in your ranks?”

Achille frowned. “It’s dangerous, Monsieur, to make such inferences based on insufficient knowledge of the facts.”

Lautrec nodded and adopted a more serious tone and demeanor. “Perhaps you’re right, Inspector. Nevertheless, if there is an individual involved in the investigation who happens to be the cause of your concern for security, and that certain individual also happens to be someone very well-known in these precincts, you should know that many of my local acquaintances would gladly come to your assistance.”

Achille had no doubt Lautrec had referred to Rousseau. For an instant, he did not know how to reply. Then: “Thank you, Monsieur. I’ll keep that in mind.”

12

OCTOBER 20

CONSPIRACY

THE DEVIL IN MONTMARTRE

Jojo’s up to something, all right.” In the early morning hours, Le Boudin sat at the table in his “shop” across from Moïse, one of his most trusted men. A light rain pattered on the roof shingles, dripping here and there through the open slats. Out back, a rooster perched on a fence near the henhouse crowed, as if in response to Le Boudin’s suspicious declaration; goats stirred and bleated in their pen.

Tallow from a guttering taper flowed down the sides of its brown bottle holder, forming a little waxen pool on the tabletop. The flickering candle revealed the young chiffonier’s face in chiaroscuro, sharply contrasting highlights and shadows, like a Rembrandt. Long, oily locks framed Moïse’s lean, hawk-like face; the beginnings of a black beard shaded the youth’s upper lip and jaw line; shrewd dark brown eyes gazed at Le Boudin directly.

“It was hard work shadowing him, that’s for sure. Jojo was shaking some dumb flatfoot, one of Rousseau’s men. Nathan and me tailed the clown all the way up the hill, twisting and turning, like chasing a friggin’ monkey through the jungle. He met someone in an old mill up by the big church at the top of the butte. Nathan hung round and followed the other guy while I clung to Jojo’s tail, all the way back to his digs. Nathan says the other guy was tricked out like an actor: cloak, slouch hat, fake beard, and spectacles. Nathan says the bloke ran like a bat out of hell, all the way downhill to the boulevard where a coach was waiting.”

Le Boudin’s eyes narrowed. “And Nathan lost him?”

“Yeah, he tried to jump on the back of the coach, but it pulled away too fast.”

“The guy didn’t suspect Nathan was shadowing him, did he?”

Moïse shook his head confidently. “No, boss, Nathan’s too sharp for that.”

“Hmmm, I guess so, but it’s too bad he couldn’t keep up the tail.” Le Boudin looked down and drummed his fingers for a moment. Then: “Did you boys pick up anything else on Jojo or the mysterious bloke?”

Moïse scratched his fuzzy cheek and thought a moment. “Yeah, the clown’s been living it up the last week or so, spreading his gelt round the boîtes and whore houses, more than he could earn at the circus, that’s for sure. He’s probably done a job for that shady cove. But so far, nobody’s seen or heard of Jojo’s new pal. Anyway, it’s a good bet he ain’t from Montmartre or Pigalle.”

Le Boudin pulled out a purse, opened it, and emptied a few silver coins onto the table. “That’s for you and your brother. Keep shadowing Jojo and see what you can find out about the other guy. And get word to Delphine. I want to see her here today if possible, or tomorrow for sure. But not a word to her or anyone else about what you’ve found out. You boys keep your traps shut. And watch out for Rousseau. If the cops pick you up, you don’t know nothing. If they put the screws on, tell them you’ll talk to Inspector Lefebvre, and no one else. You follow?”

Moïse smiled, scooped up the coins and shoved them into his pocket. “Don’t worry, boss; Nathan and me, we’ve dealt with the cops before. We know the ropes. And we’ve heard Lefebvre’s a square guy.”

Le Boudin’s brow knitted. “It ain’t you boys I’m worried about, it’s Delphine. She’s got a hot temper and sometimes she acts before she thinks. She’s a tough girl, all right, but she ain’t a match for Jojo.” A few dim morning rays seeped into the shed through the cracks and unglazed windows, striking Le Boudin’s face. His hard-boiled features glowed like a savage mask in firelight. He recalled the beating Delphine had taken from Jojo and imagined what had been done to her friend, Virginie.

Le Boudin balled his one huge hand into a hammer-like fist and rested it on the table next to his hook; looking down at these two weapons he swore an oath: “Moïse, I’ve killed men in battle under the French flag, but I’ve never committed murder. But as God is my witness, if that bastard ever hurts my girl again, I’ll gut him with my hook, rip out his evil heart, and feed it to the crows.”

Arthur and Achille sat at a window table in one of the quieter, less conspicuous café-bars, not far from the Quai des Orfèvres. Rain beat down steadily on the pavement, driving the sidewalk trade indoors. Still, the place was not crowded and the two could speak freely. Arthur had contacted Achille’s office that morning and set up the appointment. He would have included Marcia, but the inclement weather had kept her at the hotel.

Achille admired the author; he had read some of his stories in English and decided to take some time to get to know the man better. He hoped that by establishing a good rapport with Wolcott he would gain Marcia’s confidence and thereby obtain something he needed desperately, an object with Sir Henry’s fingerprints.

Arthur seemed tense; he fidgeted with his gloves and kept glancing out the window, as if he were being followed. Achille tried to put the author at ease with small talk. “The coffee and pastries are quite good, don’t you agree?”

Arthur turned to Achille with a surprised look. “Oh—yes, of course, Inspector. Rather good, and reasonably priced too.”

“I’m glad you agree. I come here often when I’m deeply involved in a case, and want a quick meal. It’s a short walk from headquarters. The beer and sandwiches are pretty good too.”

Arthur didn’t mind the pleasantries, but he hadn’t come out in foul weather to discuss the bill of fare at what seemed to him a second rate café for the lower middle class. He was about to lay his cards on the table, but on reflection decided it was best to remain polite. “Indeed, I’m sure the beer and sandwiches are superb, and will keep that in mind when I’m next in the neighborhood.”

Achille smiled and continued his effort at breaking the ice by reference to one of Arthur’s stories. “Last year I read your story about the detective who tracks down a lady jewel thief and falls in love with her. I thought it was excellent, as good as anything by Maupassant.”

“Thank you, Inspector, that’s very kind of you.” Arthur forced a smile; he hated the story. He had written it hastily at the urging of a magazine editor who regularly published his work and paid top dollar. Arthur wanted to use a nom de plume, but the editor convinced him that would hurt sales. Not surprisingly, the story was a great success, which made the publisher and Arthur’s agent quite happy. Moreover, since its publication, nine out of ten readers who complimented him mentioned this story, which he considered a meretricious potboiler. Maintaining his smile, he pursued: “That detective story is quite popular, and I’m very pleased you enjoyed it, but it’s not really my line of country.”

They were speaking English. Achille was fluent, but something Arthur had said puzzled him. “Pardon me, Monsieur, what is your ‘line of country’?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid that’s an Anglicism that’s crept into my speech. I should have said not my métier.”

“Ah, I see, well for something that’s not your métier you handled it splendidly.”

Achille’s calculated flattery had worked its magic. Arthur relaxed and enjoyed his coffee and brioche. Rain battered the plate glass window, washed over the pavement and filled the gutters to overflowing. No use rushing in such weather, he thought. It’s a cozy place, the coffee and brioche aren’t bad, and this policeman seems like an intelligent fellow. I wonder if he reads anything besides romantic detective novelettes. “Perhaps you could satisfy my professional curiosity, Inspector. Have you a favorite writer or novel?”

Achille seized the opening. “With all due respect to your work, Monsieur, which I do indeed esteem greatly, my favorite novel is Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. I say this because it had a significant influence on my choice of career.”

The author was now intrigued by the policeman, Achille’s literary allusion having made a further inroad into Arthur’s confidence. An interesting individual, he thought. The inspector was more than a flattering casual reader; he had transformed into a ‘character,’ grist for Arthur’s fictive mill. “If I may inquire, Inspector, in what sense did the novel influence you?”

Achille smiled, now confident that he had accurately analyzed Arthur’s personality; his calculated effort to ingratiate himself with the author seemed to have been a success. He proceeded to reveal something about himself that was sincere while at the same time self-serving in the sense that it was intended to help secure Arthur’s unequivocal support. “I was a boy of thirteen when I read the book. I was deeply moved by the story of Edmond Dantès, an honest, decent man who through no fault of his own became the victim of treachery, greed, and the corruption of justice. Through either chance, or more likely the intervention of Divine Providence, he transformed into an avenging angel, an instrument of Divine retribution, a strict lex talionis that, in the end, was tempered with mercy.

“Of course, there were elements of adventure, mystery, romance, violence, and intrigue that would appeal to a young boy. But above all, Dumas’ story inspired in me a passion for justice, a dogged determination to pursue the guilty and defend the innocent.”

“That’s a noble sentiment, Inspector, and a fine ideal for a man of your profession. But what do you think of Hugo’s Javert?”

Achille felt like an angler; Arthur had taken the bait, it was now time to tug the line and drive the hook home. “You know, M. Wolcott, many believe Hugo modeled Javert on the Sûreté’s founder, Eugène François Vidocq. But Vidocq spent his career pursuing and capturing dangerous criminals; he did not hound poor individuals who stole bread to feed their starving families, and neither do I.

“Yet in many ways I am like Javert; I’m not a Divine avenger, and I’m more a realist than an idealist. I don’t make the laws; I assist in their enforcement. Justice is imperfect as is our world; citizens can make improvements, but we will always fall short of an ideal. As for my youthful passion, it’s been tempered by experience and the constraints of my profession. I now subscribe to Rochefoucauld’s maxim: “The love of justice is simply, in the majority of men, the fear of suffering injustice.”

Arthur nodded his silent agreement. He sipped his coffee and nibbled some pastry. Then: “Tell me Inspector, what can I do to assist your investigation?”

“At the moment, there are two things, Monsieur. First, if her health and circumstances permit, I would like to speak to Mlle Brownlow, informally and away from the hotel. You may be present. Hopefully, she can tell me something about Mlle Ménard that will be of some significance. Women often share confidences, even with casual acquaintances, that they would keep from their husbands or most intimate male companions.”

Arthur did not disagree. He knew Marcia had spoken intimately with Virginie and she had not yet revealed the details of their conversation to him. “Very well, Inspector, I’ll try to arrange such a meeting as soon as possible. You mentioned something else.”

Achille frowned and spoke solemnly to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “Monsieur Wolcott, I know you by reputation to be a man of honor. What I’m about to say must be held in the strictest confidence. I must have your word as a gentleman that you’ll not reveal what I’m about to tell you. If you break your oath, there could be grave consequences.”

Arthur nodded. “You have my word of honor, Inspector.”

“Very well, Monsieur. While this remains unofficial in the sense that no evidence has been presented to the magistrate, I suspect that Sir Henry Collingwood may have some involvement in the disappearance and death of Virginie Ménard. At present, and for reasons you do not need to know, I want a writing of Sir Henry’s, a note, letter, or perhaps a prescription. Could you obtain such a document?”

Arthur’s eyes widened. He had had his own suspicions about Sir Henry, but they had not gone so far as murder. Moreover, he had recently obtained a letter from the doctor relating to Marcia’s illness and recommendations for further treatment in England. “I do have something in my possession. May I ask why you need it?”

“I’m afraid not, Monsieur. The less you know about this matter, the better.”

“I see. Will you return the letter to me?”

Achille shook his head. “Depending on what I discover, I may need to keep it in evidence. If that’s the case, I’ll provide you with a copy. By the way, Monsieur, have you noticed if Sir Henry always wears gloves?”

Arthur found the question perplexing; he thought a moment before answering, “I’ve seen him without his gloves on occasion. And I suppose if I ask why you need this information you’ll tell me to mind my own business.”

“I apologize for being so secretive. Permit me another question. Were you with him when he wrote the letter? If so, was he wearing gloves?”

Still puzzled, Arthur replied “I was indeed present and he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

Achille smiled with relief. “Thank you, Monsieur Wolcott. You’ve been most helpful. There’s one more thing. When you arrange the meeting with Mlle Brownlow, you may do so on the pretext of taking her to the Bois, a gallery, or whatever. But instead, you’ll bring her here. You may contact my office by telephone to make arrangements.”

“All right, Inspector. But before I leave, I insist you tell me something. Do you believe Mlles Brownlow and Endicott are in danger?”

The question raised concerns that had troubled Achille’s conscience day and night. Regardless, he answered honestly: “For the time being I believe not, Monsieur. But the sooner my suspicions are either confirmed or refuted by hard evidence the better for all involved.”

The rubbish-clogged drainage ditch burgeoned into a swollen stream, overflowing its muddy banks and rising to the level of the rickety footbridge. The steep trail winding uphill from the old military road to Le Boudin’s compound had transformed into a waterfall, cascading into the flooded channel. Delphine chose a longer, more circuitous route round the gradual incline of the reverse slope.

She grabbed a stout fallen poplar limb to aid in her climb. Her bonnet and waterproof cape provided protection from the elements; leaning forward with the wind and rain at her back, she lifted her skirts in her left hand while her right worked the staff; her leather boots slogged on through the muck as Delphine made slow and steady progress to the summit.

She picked up her pace as the ground leveled. Her eyes scanned the ridge for signs of life, but all the inhabitants, human and beast alike, had sought shelter indoors. Only Bazaine remained outside, crouching in a dry spot on the leaky porch, faithfully guarding his master’s doorway.

Delphine bent over and patted the dog’s upturned head. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you old boy?” She stroked Bazaine’s muzzle and he licked her hand in greeting. Then she knocked on the door and shouted, “Hey Papa Le Boudin, it’s me. Let me in before I drown!”

“Come in Delphine,” he called out “and shut the door behind you!”

She found Le Boudin at his table, eating a light meal and reviewing his receipts with one of his women. Delphine recognized her immediately. “Hello, Marie. You remember me, don’t you?”

The portly, ruddy-cheeked, good-natured woman of forty welcomed Delphine with a gap-toothed smile. “Of course I do, my dear. I’d kiss you, but I don’t want to get soaked. We were just going over the accounts. Business is good; we’ll make a fine profit this year.” She got up on her feet and scrutinized the girl, from dripping bonnet to mud-caked boots. “Now, you better get out of those damp clothes and hang them up to dry. I’ll fetch one of my dresses, though God knows it’ll be big enough for two of you.”