The Devil in Montmartre (19 page)

Arthur offered her a cigarette. She accepted and leaned forward as he struck a match. He noticed the slight tremor in her gloved hand as she held his to steady the light.

Arthur called the waiter and their drinks were brought presently. The aperitifs had a tongue-loosening effect. After exchanging a few pleasantries Arthur asked, “So what brings you to Paris?”

Aggie downed her drink and requested another before answering: “I won’t beat about the bush with an old friend. Frankly, I’m strapped for cash and selling artwork to raise capital. I’ve had some very good offers in London, but for certain pieces I might get a better price in Paris. And I have one item of particular interest to Betsy Endicott, my famous Mark Brownlow portrait. Someone—you’ll forgive me if I don’t reveal the name—has already offered me a thousand guineas.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted at the sum. “By Jove, a thousand you say? That’s quite a handsome offer, even for a modern masterpiece.”

The waiter interrupted with their drinks. Aggie took a sip and then fiddled with the liqueur, rolling the stem between her fingers, sloshing the drink, and spreading a green film on the inside of the glass. After a moment: “I expect Betsy would pay more than a thousand guineas, quite a bit more in fact. I know she and Marcia have a suite at the Grand Hotel, and you’re staying there as well. I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my means these days. I was going to announce myself by leaving a card at the front desk, but I wonder if you’d do me a favor by sounding them out first?”

Aggie’s frank disclosure of her financial difficulties coupled with her expectations of significant gain from the sale of her portrait to Betsy raised Arthur’s suspicions. To his knowledge, only five people besides himself knew of the Mark Brownlow deception—Marcia, Betsy, Daisy Brewster, Princess Albertini, and Lady Agatha. Was Aggie’s situation so desperate that she might attempt blackmail? Such things were not unknown in society when creditors came banging at one’s door. The revelation that for more than two years Marcia had lived and painted as a man would be harmful to all concerned, including Arthur, who had acted as “Mark”’s agent and had promoted the young artist’s works aggressively among his many social contacts and friends.

Arthur tried to disguise his apprehension behind a smile. He was privy to some information that might extricate him from his dilemma. Betsy would pay a premium for Marcia’s work if she knew some of the money would be used for Marcia’s care. Arthur immediately conceived of a scheme that would benefit Marcia and at the same time help Aggie without her being tempted to resort to criminal tactics. “I’ll of course be glad to ‘sound them out.’ We’re old friends, after all. And I believe Betsy would indeed pay a fine price for your portrait, assuming you kept your demands within reason. By the way, did you know Betsy and Marcia were parting company?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Has Marcia’s illness anything to do with it?”

“Her illness—and other things. At any rate, she’s currently under the care of a noted physician, Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe you’re acquainted with the gentleman?”

Lady Agatha’s eyes narrowed, revealing a network of wrinkles through white face powder like the crazing on an old pottery glaze. “You needn’t be coy, Arthur. We’re not in a London drawing room. My
former
relationship with Sir Henry is quite well known.”

“Ah yes, but now it seems Sir Henry has turned his attention to Betsy, and that is one of the ‘other things’ I mentioned as the cause for separation.”

Lady Agatha laughed, but it sounded more like a rasping file than a tinkling bell. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll make a jolly pair.” She paused a moment and sipped some liqueur to clear her throat. She did not want to meet Sir Henry, a fact Arthur had counted on, and she made up an excuse which fit perfectly with Arthur’s off-the-cuff scheme. “I forgot to mention I’ve been invited to Nice, and must leave Paris presently. You remember my friend, the count? He was once a famous sportsman; I believe you did some shooting with him? Now he’s in his dotage, poor dear, almost blind, bound to a wheelchair, and his heirs hover round him like vultures. He can’t stand the sight or smell of them. At any rate, he remembers me as I was and enjoys my company immensely, so I must go to him when he calls. I provide diversion, and he rewards me with little tokens of his appreciation.
C’est un prêté pour un rendu, n’est-ce pas?

“Would you be willing to act for me in my absence? Negotiate with Betsy for the purchase of my painting. I could make it worth your while if you get me the right price.”

Arthur smiled, but was careful not to seem overly eager. “Well, I don’t know, but
perhaps
I could. You’d have to give me a figure to work with.”

“I told you I was offered a thousand in London, but I think the painting’s worth fifteen hundred—that’s guineas, my dear, not pounds or dollars, and
certainly
not francs.”

Arthur whistled in feigned astonishment at her stated amount. “That’s a great deal of money, Aggie. Still, it
might
be done, but will you come down to, say, twelve-fifty? I might need some leeway to close the deal.”

Lady Agatha sighed. “Oh, all right, if necessary I’ll take twelve-fifty, but not a farthing less. And here’s an incentive. If you get me fifteen hundred or more, I’ll cut you in for a ten-percent commission.”

“That’s very generous of you, Aggie. I promise I’ll do my best. Now, I’ll need your address, a place I can wire.”

Lady Agatha opened her purse and withdrew a silver pencil and a little scented notepad. She scribbled a few lines and handed the ecru slip to Arthur. “Here’s my address in Paris. I’ll be leaving for Nice tomorrow and you may wire me there.” She glanced down at a small gold watch pinned to her breast. “Ah, this has been delightful, but I fear I must leave. I shan’t be gone long; a couple of days, no more, and I’d like this business concluded by then. It’s been lovely seeing you again.
À bientôt!
”

Arthur watched as she vanished into the crowd streaming up and down the boulevard.
Contemptible hag.
He ordered another coffee and aperitif, lit a cigarette, and returned to his newspaper. He’d get her price and more and use the commission to help defray the cost of Marcia’s care in England.
I’ve become a regular Major Pendennis when it comes to squaring things and cleaning up after people.
He turned to the article about the Exposition and for the sixth time read:
The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment.
“Rubbish!” he muttered, and then turned the page to read about an execution in Marseilles.

Jeanne sat up in bed and smiled at Achille. She had Adele’s bright green eyes and light brown hair, an adorable expression when she was pleased as she was now, and for the most part, a sweet temperament. He had just finished reading
Beauty and the Beast
.

“That’s my very favorite story, Papa,” she declared enthusiastically.

He put the book on the bedside table, turned down the lamp, leaned over, brushed away a few curls, and kissed her forehead. She smelled of clean fresh linen and scented soap. “Why is it your favorite, little one?” he whispered.

“Because the beast turns into a handsome prince, he marries Belle, and they live happily ever after.”

“But do you know
why
he became a handsome prince, and
why
Belle became his queen?”

Jeanne’s sweet, contented smile changed into a perplexed pout, a typical reaction to her papa’s questions that often seemed beyond her comprehension. She thought a moment, and then the smile returned with what she believed was the correct answer: “Because the good fairy made the beast into a handsome prince so he could marry Belle and be rich and happy!”

Achille tried to formulate a response his four-year-old daughter would understand. He gave her a quick, simple plot summary until he reached the moral of the story. “Belle was rewarded because, unlike her wicked sisters, she preferred virtue to wit and beauty. Appearances are deceiving, Jeanne; people are not always as they seem. Belle had a pure and virtuous heart, and that allowed her to look beyond the beast’s appearance, to see his noble soul, the handsome prince within. Now, do you know how to get a pure and virtuous heart?”

Jeanne looked very serious. “Will the good fairy give me one?”

Achille smiled and stroked her hair. “Perhaps she will, but I know a better way, and it’s not hard. All you have to do is say your prayers every day, be a good girl, and listen to mama and nanny. Do you think you can do that?”

She smiled and threw her arms around him. “Is that all? That’s
so
easy. I do that already.”

Achille lifted her out of bed and hugged her. “Of course you do, darling,” he whispered.

There was a knock on the door. Adele entered with Madame Berthier and the nanny, Suzanne, a dark-eyed, sprightly little spinster of thirty from Provence. Suzanne slept in a cot next to Jeanne’s bed.

Achille tucked Jeanne under the covers while Adele and Madame approached. Suzanne placed a candle on the dresser, and then turned her attention toward the family, silently observing their bedtime ritual with amused interest.

Adele bent over and kissed the child. “Did papa tell you a nice story?”

“Oh yes, mama, a lovely story. And he said if I get a pure and virtuous heart I can marry a handsome prince.”

“He did? Well, that’s very wise advice. Now kiss grandmamma and say good-night.”

Madame leaned over slowly and stiffly with aching joints and a loud creaking of whalebone stays. She touched her lips to the child’s forehead; Madame couldn’t quite reach the upturned little mouth. “Good-night, my pretty little cabbage.”

Jeanne smiled angelically. “Good-night, Grandmamma.”

Suzanne then bid them all good-night. The family filed out of the bedroom, Madame Berthier first, followed by Adele and Achille. Once in the hall and out of the earshot of Suzanne and Jeanne, Madame remarked: “She’s such a sweet child. You must give her a little brother or a sister at the very least. What are you waiting for?”

Achille stared at his slippers. Adele replied: “We’ll give you another grandchild soon enough, Mama.”

Madame frowned. “Remember Adele, you had two brothers and a sister. Only you and your eldest brother lived past twenty and he was killed in the Tonkin war. Now, you’re all I have left. Think about it. Good-night.” She turned, creaked and rustled down the hall to her suite.

Later in bed Achille whispered, “For once, your mother makes sense. We ought to try again; a boy or another little girl, it makes no difference to me.”

Adele smiled and stroked his cheek tenderly. “I agree, darling, but do you think you can, with this case on your mind day and night?”

He stared at her for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re right. When this is over, I’ll demand a holiday. Féraud owes me. We’ll go somewhere romantic by the sea; perhaps Nice. It’ll be lovely, just you and I, as we were today at Chatou before the Englishman came.” In the dim light he could read the disappointment in her eyes, as though she had lost faith in his promises. “Good-night, dear.” He kissed her, rolled over, and put out the lamp.

Rousseau sat on the edge of the bed in a small Montmartre flat. Louise, his mistress of twenty years, knelt behind him. Her strong hands kneaded his shoulders; her pendulous breasts rubbed against his broad back.

“You’re so tense, my dear,” she whispered. “Your muscles are like knotted ropes.”

“It’s this damned case,” he muttered.

Louise kissed his hairy neck. “You’ve worked hundreds of cases. I’ve never known one to bother you like this.”

Rousseau closed his eyes and had a vision of Féraud and Achille. After all his years of service, he was being cut out. There seemed to be nothing left for him but retirement and the life of an aging pensioner. He spoke without looking at her: “You don’t understand, my dear. I’m coming to the end of the line and I want to go out in style. And I want to do it my way—the old way. But the professor’s running the show. Féraud’s backing him and his newfangled methods to the hilt.”

Louise laughed. “Is that all? Lefebvre’s green as grass; you said so yourself. You can brush him away like a fly.”