The Orphan's Tale (18 page)

Malet had finished peeling the last potato.
He carefully wiped the blade of his knife and set it aside. "There, all finished," he said as he wiped his hands on a towel and then rolled his sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs.

"
M. l'Inspecteur," she said, exasperated with his elusiveness, especially in view of all that had just been said. "I asked a question!"

He looked up and smiled warmly at her.
"I don't know the answer," he said more lightly than before. "It might depend on who said it to the sojourner, and who he himself might be. It might...make him very happy."

She gave it up, annoyed with him because she suspected that he was laughing at her.
"You said it was dangerous last night. I wish to thank you again. In - in behalf of all whose lives you saved."

Malet rose and turned away to retrieve his jacket.
The color in his cheeks was heightened when he turned back. "It was nothing," he said formally, bowing. "I was pleased to be of service, Mad - "

"
And my name is Elise," she interrupted. "Please do me the honor of using it."

"
Elise, then," he amended with a smile. "And my name is Paul. But I truly was happy to be of service."

"
Perhaps I can return the favor one day," she said.

His eyes were dancing as they traveled from the top of her head to the floor, and he seemed to be estimating her weight.
Suddenly he was smiling again. "Be sure you have your pistols," he said with the hint of a grin. "You're no bigger than my housekeeper's spaniel!"

She sniffed and shook her head, well aware that she was average height.

He was still smiling, and he said in a gentle voice she hadn't heard him use before, "I must go out again, and I will be very late getting in. I must question a witness tonight, and I don't know how long it will take. If it's very late, I will stay elsewhere. Don't have anyone wait up for me."

INSPECTOR MALET AT THE OPER
"

The last notes throbbed in the hushed air of the Opera House and faded into a silence that lingered for the space of time it took to draw a deep breath before the spectators burst into thunderous applause. Rosalie Plessis remained on her knees with her hands clasped before her as the curtains swept together to hide the stage from view.

The audience rose to their feet in wave upon wave of cheering as the curtains opened again to show La Plessis on her feet now and smiling.
She sank into a low curtsey, her dark head bent, and then rose again as the rest of the company came in behind her and bowed.

The cheering did not abate as the company took its bows, as Rosalie accepted bouquet after bouquet from the audience and finally sang three encores, one with the leading tenor.
It was another half-hour before she could finally turn away from the curtain and smile at the rest of the troop.

"
A splendid performance, Rosa!" cried Adele Clout, the contralto. "You'll take England by storm!"

Rosalie made a graceful reply, ignored the hissed
"Bitch!" of the castrate, Francesco Vent, and gave her largest bouquet of roses to the lead chorus-girl.

"
Here, Lillie," she said. "Give these to the girls. They outdid themselves this evening."

"
After a night like this, how can you think of leaving Paris?" demanded the tenor.

Rosalie shrugged.
"I would like to see London," she said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I am very tired."

It took another ten minutes for her to reach her dressing salon, the largest in the theater, and she paused at the door to chat with the wardrobe mistress before opening the door with a sigh.

She had not lied: she was exhausted. Singing was a more athletic occupation than many people realized. The presence in Paris of the phenomenal singer, Maria Felicia Garcia, known as La Milacron, was a signal to her to move on. She could not hope to compete with a voice of such range, power and sweetness.

A
melia, her dresser, had promised to heat a bath for her. She could already feel the warmth of the water soaking away the aches. And yet, she could not suppress the exultation. She had sung well that night.

She closed the door behind her and shed the light cloak that had been set over her shoulders.
Her anteroom was filled with roses of every conceivable color and size. Their sweet, heavy scent was overpowering, and it was with a sense of relief that she noticed a large bouquet of purple asters.

That bouquet, stirring the memory of a past love, made her hesitate in the doorway of her dressing room. She lifted it and buried her face in it as she stepped over the threshold.

She stopped just inside the door with an exclamation of surprise.

"
You!"

The cause of her astonishment was reclining at his elegant ease on the silk
-upholstered raceme by the screen and scanning a volume of English poetry. He raised smiling eyes and rose as she came into the room. "I see you found my flowers," he said.

Rosalie laid the asters aside and gazed up at him.
"Hello, Paul," she said through an answering smile.

He inserted one long finger between the pages of the book, and said,
"Hello, Rose. I was just reading of you." He opened the book again and read in English,

"'She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

and all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes...'
"

He was smiling as he laid the book aside and took her hands in his.

"
How did you get in here?" she asked.

"
I said I wanted to see you," he replied simply.

"
And no one tried to stop you?" she demanded, torn between annoyance and amusement.

"
Some puffing, lard-bellied bag-pudding who seemed to fancy himself a Police officer tried to be obstructive," Malet admitted. "I took care of him."

"
Poor René!" she gasped, trying to suppress a giggle at the description. "You didn't hurt him, did you?

He opened his eyes at her and raised her hand to his lips.
"I didn't lay a finger on him," he said as he bent to kiss her wrist, an old caress between them. "I flashed my card and told him to stand aside, and when he wanted to argue, I told him to stop. That's all. Is he your latest flame, then?" His face was completely serious.

"
Wretch!" she exclaimed through her laughter. "He is not! Let me look at you! Three years!" Her hand disengaged from his, brushed up his arm to his shoulder, and drew him to her as she raised her face for his kiss.

They had met in 1827, his second year in
Paris, when her career was just beginning to blossom. She had been beset by a mob of admirers outside the Opera house. Although she had been a performer for many years and used to the vagaries of crowds, their admiration this time exceeded the limits of what she considered safe or proper. Her footmen had been beaten, and she had been pulled from her carriage. She had cried for help, and he had appeared, tall, calm, and capable.

He had somehow managed to disperse the crowd all alone, rendered assistance to her servants, and then took her back to her home.
When she tried to hail him as her savior, he shrugged off her gratitude and told her that he was a Police inspector, and her rescue was merely his duty.

The reply had been robbed of its coolness when he added with a disarming twinkle that for once he had found his duty a sheer delight.
That had emboldened her to invite him inside for some refreshment, and he had accepted.

They laughed at the same things, and by the time he had left her, she had warmed to him enough to ask him to sup with her the next night.
The liking had grown, and some time later Paris whispered that La Plessis had taken a new lover.

Paris
was correct. Like many women of her station, she had no difficulty expressing her affection physically, but she found him something of a puzzle. There was always a sense of detachment about him, though he was as passionate and appreciative as any woman could want.

They had had a slight quarrel and Rosalie had meant to speak with him the next day, but the cataclysm of the July revolution of 1830 burst upon them before she could do so.
He went to take his place in the front lines and was severely wounded. She fled the city for some months and stayed under the protection of a man named Constant Dracquet.

It was a long time before Malet could leave his bed, but when he was finally recovered, he never came back.

Her life was busy and full, her career was blossoming, and there had always been other men to keep her occupied, but she had always remembered him with fondness, and she was not surprised to see that he still had the power to make her heart beat faster. She realized there would be many things to regret when she left Paris forever.

But she had other concerns at the moment.
She set a hand against his chest and pushed him away reluctantly. "Wait," she said. "I am tired and filthy at the moment!"

He smiled then and said,
"How could you ever be filthy? You're as filthy as a rose."

She smiled at the compliment but said,
"You know better. Performing is hard work. Amelia drew me a hot bath - "

"
So that's who that little giglet was," said Malet. "She blushes enchantingly."

Rosalie sniffed and went behind the screen.
"The child drew me a bath and I will be damned if I forego it!" she said as she unlaced her costume. "Sit down! I don't want you pacing about while I am bathing."

"
What's the harm in it? You have a screen there."

"
You're tall enough to peer over the screen. You have done it several times over the years, if you recall. Sit down!"

He obeyed with a chuckle.
"And who was that giggling exquisite in yellow satin with the face that would curdle milk? He made a point of bumping into me backstage. I had to tell him to keep his hands to himself."

"
Francesco Venuti," she replied. "You must have heard of him. He's a fairly well known castrato."

Malet went over to her pitcher and basin and washed his hands and then dried them on a length of linen.
"A castrato!" he said distastefully. "That explains why he had a pair of rolled stockings down the front of his trousers!"

She gurgled with delight and stepped into the tub.
"He is a nuisance," she said. "Wretch! Where have you been? I did miss you, you know!"

"
Nursing a broken heart, of course," he replied with a smooth promptness that she deplored as he sat down again. "Just as you did," he added with a touch of acid.

"C
hasing criminals, more likely," she retorted. "I have read the papers! You have been very busy. Which reminds me, Paul: why are you here? You aren't one to pine when your heart really isn't broken, and we did part on terms that weren't exactly cordial."

"
It wasn't a bad squabble.  And there are reasons and reasons for coming back."

Rosalie paused in the act of soaping her throat and shoulders to say with sudden suspicion,
"This isn't official, is it?"

"
As a matter of fact, it is," Malet replied. He was back on the recamier with the book in his hands.

"
What?"

He looked up from one of Shakespeare's sonnets.
"I am taking an interest in something," he said, "And I am pretty sure you know something about one of the major players."

She immersed the sponge, squeezed it out, rubbed it against the bar of violet
-scented soap, and said, "I can't afford to get tangled up in criminal matters, Paul. I am leaving Paris within the month. Forever. I want no part of this if it's going to delay me."

His smile was rather dark as he replied,
"You needn't worry: all I want from you is some direction. Point me the right way, and I will do the rest."

She was silent for a moment, thinking of the future and remembering the past.
"Come home with me," she said at last. "We can dine, as we used to. It will only take me a minute to get dressed." She chuckled again at his politely phrased offer of assistance and decided to dispense with her stays.

A POLICEMAN'S WORK IS NEVER DONE

"
This is as beautiful as I remember," Malet said, looking around at the green and gold splendor of Rosalie's drawing room.

"
Yes," she agreed. "It has happy memories."

"
I am amazed that you can bear to leave it," Malet said.

She shrugged.
"One does what one must," she said. "I am going on to something better, I believe..." Her face was thoughtful for a moment, but she smiled up at him and tucked her hand in his arm. "Come, my dear," she said. "My servants have probably laid out a cold supper in the dining salon, as usual."