Deadly Descent (18 page)

As if entranced, Michou rose from her seat and walked up to the pictures. She studied each of them, then compared them to one another. Slowly she turned toward Anne, a stricken expression on her face. Antoine Dubois, she had apparently concluded, was Anne's father. She walked up to Anne, caressed her cheek, and embraced her. With a nod Anne confirmed Michou's assumption. Antoine Dubois, after all, was the only father she had ever known.

After supper, while Michou sat at the table, Anne gave her a blank marionette and the materials to paint it, then placed Dubois' picture next to them. Michou understood immediately and set to work. Before the evening was far gone, she had produced a marionette with a credible likeness to him.

Early the next day, before the Tatar Puppet Theater opened to the public, Anne and Michou climbed onto the platform behind the stage and arranged the strings for three marionettes in a dressing room scene. Victor Benoit soon joined them to prepare the lighting. Anne had told him only that this production was a test for Michou, who had shown unexpected talent in puppetry.

Anne directed Michou to work the marionette representing herself while Benoit worked Lélia Laplante's. When Anne attempted to move the newly painted “Antoine Dubois” into the arms of the actress, Michou waved her hands in protest. Then Anne had her father attack the actress, his arms beating upon her.

Suddenly, a crash echoed through the empty theater. Michou's marionette lay on the stage, its limbs sprawling grotesquely. She had released the strings and rushed from the platform, gesturing to the others to remain. A few minutes later, she returned with another marionette.

An astonishing transformation took place. Possessed by an idea, Michou took command of the stage. She beckoned to the manager to operate “Michou,” which she moved into a darkened closet open to the actress' dressing room. “Michou” lay down as if resting, concealed in a jumble of clothes but able to watch whatever happened. She removed “Dubois” from the stage and gave Anne the strings to “Lélia Laplante,” who sat at a table. Finally, Michou walked the new marionette into the room. It was “Chevalier de Pressigny.”

Michou gestured to Anne that “the actress” should rise. What was clearly a quarrel then took place, with much fist-shaking and foot-stamping. Michou yanked a pin out of her hair and thrust it at her marionette. Anne understood that her enraged “Lélia” should reach into her hair, pull out a long pin, and strike at “Pressigny's” face.

The marionettes had fallen by now into slow motion. Michou's “Pressigny” lifted his left arm to parry the blow. The pin hit his hand; he shook it with pain. He leaned toward the table, seized an object, and struck the actress powerfully in the throat. Confused, Anne asked, “What's that object?”

In reply, Michou reached behind the stage for a pair of scissors. With a fierce expression on her face, she held it up as if to stab Anne, who then let “Lélia Laplante” drop to the floor. The manager raised the concealed “Michou's” arm in horror. “Pressigny” staggered backwards out of the room.

Michou closed the curtain, jumped from the platform, and ran out the door.

There was a moment of silence. “Christ!” exclaimed Victor. “Who would think she could produce a play like
that
?”

Hurrying out, Anne glanced over her shoulder. “Victor, put together a piece for today. I'll look after Michou.”

Anne found her friend on a bench under a chestnut tree in the garden, staring down at the gravel, trembling. Anne sat next to her and stroked her gently until she grew calm. She looked up. Anne dried her tear-stained face. Soon the arcades began to bustle with morning shoppers. Anne and Michou rose from the bench and walked together slowly toward the Beaujolais exit like two grieving sisters.

***

The sun was still high, but a light breeze cooled the air. Anne and Colonel Saint-Martin walked in his garden, discussing Michou's astonishing performance that morning at the Tatar Puppet Theater. When they reached the fountain, he wondered aloud what Pressigny had said to provoke Laplante's attack. “It's a pity Michou couldn't hear him or at least read his lips.” With a cautious glance he asked, “Could you persuade her to tell us more. Perhaps something about the death of Dubois?”

“Not in her present state of mind,” Anne replied, feeling pity for her deaf friend. “I've tried, but she balks. Won't touch the marionettes any more. Her memories are too painful.” Anne turned to the fountain, listening to the rhythmic splash of water. “For now it's best that she lose herself in her studies at Abbé de l'Épée's institute. She's learning to sign with his method and to read and write.”

“Good. She may yet be a credible witness.” He sighed. “In any case, we would need more than her testimony to bring Pressigny to court.”

“My father is
innocent
,” said Anne, suppressing an urge to dispute his point. “Pressigny's the key to proving it.” She grimaced at the thought she would be with him soon at the Amateurs' reception.

As they walked back to the residence, she told the colonel she was thinking of bringing Michou with her to Chateau Debussy since she would need a maid. The woman's skill at sketching might also prove useful.

Saint-Martin stopped suddenly and stared at Anne. “Pressigny might know Michou! If he does, he'll suspect you're up to something.” He raised a warning hand. “What do you suppose he'll do, if he discovers the sole witness to his crime only an arm's reach away?”

Anne refused to flinch. “He won't notice Michou. She's just another servant in the house. And he doesn't know she witnessed his attack on Lélia.”

The colonel's expression hardened.

“Of course,” she added with a conciliatory smile, “I'll take sensible precautions. Pressigny can be dangerous.”

Before the exchange could grow more heated, a servant walked toward them announcing that coffee was ready upstairs. Saint-Martin bowed slightly to Anne and extended his right arm. She took it, suppressing a sigh of relief. Quarreling with him was becoming pointless. He spoke from a sense of honor and duty, as best she could judge. She felt his arm, strong from fencing. The pressure of her grip drew his eyes to her. With a smile, he flexed the arm in response.

The servant led them through the house and opened the door to the salon overlooking the courtyard. A foreigner in Paris, Anne could ignore the social convention allowing only a man's wife or mistress the freedom she was enjoying in Saint-Martin's home. While the colonel instructed the servant, she glanced about the room. The furniture was contemporary and comfortable. The sideboard looked English. A Sheraton, she thought. Newspapers, magazines, and theater programs from London were scattered across the mahogany library table. In one corner, four music stands stood in front of as many chairs.

She also noticed a volume of Shakespeare's plays opened to
Macbeth
. Her curiosity aroused, she sorted the programs until she came to a production of the play at Drury Lane Theatre, April 22, 1786.

Smiling amiably, Saint-Martin joined her by the table. “You've discovered my fascination with your great national poet. I'd heard from a friend before going to London that I should not miss Mrs. Sarah Siddons in the role of Lady Macbeth. By happy coincidence, she was playing at the Drury Lane the evening of the day after my arrival.”

“You were fortunate. I've also seen her once in
Macbeth
.” Anne lifted her eyes, struck her breast.

“Come you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty.
”

“What single-minded evil!” Saint-Martin exclaimed.

Anne rubbed her hands, as if tormented by guilt.

“Out damned spot. Out, I say! Who would have thought the old man to have had so much
blood
in him
!”

“Well done!” Saint-Martin's eyes smiled with appreciation. “Lady Macbeth was driven by ambition and it destroyed her.”

“Perhaps something like her spirit lurks deep within me,
straining
to break out.” Ever since realizing Antoine had been murdered, she had sensed in herself a barely conscious, but single-minded, raging passion to avenge a great wrong done to her. An eye for an eye. Thus far she had ignored it, denied it, at least kept it under control. But what would she do, if she were to confront his unknown killer face to face?

The servant returned with a tray set for coffee. The colonel dismissed him, then poured. As he handed Anne a cup, he stared into her eyes. “I see her steely will.”

Chapter 19

The Scar

“He's full of surprises,” Anne said to Michou, forgetting for the moment that she couldn't hear. Chevalier de Pressigny had sent his own coachman to fetch them. The light carriage, pulled by two horses, rolled rapidly southward on the road from Paris to Orléans, tossing its occupants from side to side. Michou's eyes darted about, viewing the countryside through the open windows. Her mood seemed subdued.

Yesterday afternoon at the puppet theater, Anne had asked Michou, did she think Pressigny knew her? She had thought for a moment, then replied, no, he had never paid attention to her. When she had worked for the Amateurs, she was usually in the wardrobe and out of his sight. If she were with Laplante when he came to visit, the actress sent her away.

Anne had then explained she was going to Chateau Debussy for an investigation. Georges would be with her and the colonel would be nearby. Would Michou come along as Anne's maid? Her skill at sketching might also be needed. She had reacted to the proposal with reasonable apprehension and had asked for time to think it over. Later in the afternoon, she had come to Anne with a sober, trusting face and had agreed.

The carriage left the main highway and soon cut through the chalk ridge above Chateau Debussy. Anne gazed over the vast estate, anxiety gathering in the pit of her stomach. She descended into the broad valley of the Bièvre feeling like Daniel going down into the lions' den.

The seventeenth-century chateau stood in the middle of the valley under a clear blue sky. Its four stout, domed towers appeared to peg it firmly to the ground. The carriage drove along the west bank of the Bièvre in the shade of plane trees, then eased through a passageway in a large gate house. A dark-haired woman inside looked up from her sewing, glanced at the passengers, then nodded. The carriage rolled into an outer courtyard. To the right, Anne glimpsed a busy farmyard flanked by workshops, barns, and stables. The carriage turned to the left, crossed a pond covered with water lilies in bloom, passed under a second, richly decorated gate house, and entered the inner courtyard. The gray mass of the chateau loomed up before her—the roughly cut stonework of the ground floor, the majestic main floor, the mansard roof. Michou's eyes opened wide with awe.

Servants in silver and blue livery escorted the women through a side entrance and up two flights of stairs to their apartment on the mansard floor. The parlor was spacious, comfortably furnished in the style of Louis XV, and recently aired. A large bouquet of freshly cut yellow and lavender freesia stood on the window sill. Through the open doors, Anne saw smaller bouquets in each of their bedrooms. Arms akimbo, she asked herself why a commoner was receiving so much consideration. To groom her for the courtly part she was to play? That perhaps made sense. She felt her skepticism eroding.

While Michou unpacked in her own room, Anne stepped out on a small balcony for a view over the garden to the dark, wooded ridge beyond. Bursting through thick white clouds, the late morning sun fell on rocky outcroppings among the trees, creating an impression of ruined palisades. At the base of the ridge, Anne also discerned the entrance to a cave, like a low gate into a fortress. She half-seriously imagined Simon Derennes hidden inside. A lonely cottage squatted below the ridge in a pool of sunlight. Two small figures walked out of the building to a kiln near the cave.

There was a knock on the door. A man called out her name. With a frisson of apprehension, Anne recognized Chevalier de Pressigny's voice. What was he up to? If this were a message, why wouldn't he send it with a servant? She threw a hasty glance at herself in the mirror and, smiling politely, opened the door. His face brightened easily when he saw her. He was exquisitely attired in a mauve suit embroidered with silver. Bowing to her without a trace of mockery, he announced that Comte Debussy wished to speak with her. For a moment she felt like a visiting dignitary.

She made herself ready while he waited in the parlor, then they went downstairs to the comte's apartment. The old man sat in an armchair, his legs covered by a thin blue blanket, his feet resting on an upholstered stool. He was idly petting a black cat that had curled up in his lap. Anne stopped at a respectful distance.

“Please come closer, Mademoiselle Cartier, I want to get acquainted.” The cat opened two thin yellow slits and yawned.

A large head on a shrivelled body, the comte seemed condensed into little more than mind and will. He reached out thin, cold hands and drew her close. She looked into his eyes, almond-shaped, brown with a golden tint.

For what seemed several minutes, he studied Anne. She walked back and forth, turned left, then right. He said nothing, his brow knitted in concentration. Finally, he reached to a side table, and rang a bell. The cat leapt from his lap. A door opened and the dark-haired woman Anne had glimpsed at the gatehouse entered the room, followed by a maid carrying a large garment bag. As they passed by, the dark-haired woman gave Anne the flicker of a smile.

The comte glanced at the garment bag, then at Anne. “Chevalier de Pressigny has given us an estimate of your size. Claudine has produced this costume. Put it on so we can see if she may need to alter it.”

The dressmaker and the maid led Anne to an adjacent room. Until now, she hadn't thought much about what she was to wear. A costly and elaborate costume, perhaps, in the style worn at the opera or formal balls, the skirt wide, the bodice low-cut.

From the garment bag Claudine drew a deep purple bodice over one arm, a mustard yellow skirt over the other, while Anne removed her clothes. Over a silk petticoat she put on the long, full skirt, followed by the short-sleeved bodice with a v-neckline. She glanced at herself and gasped. As an actress, she had worn all kinds of costumes but never one like this. Her midriff was bare to the navel.

She fingered the skirt: thin delicately patterned silk of the finest quality. It lay lightly on her body. Her eyes took in the strong contrast of purple and yellow. In comparison, the pale blues, greens, and pinks favored by the French taste of the day seemed washed out and insipid.

She paced the room, whirled about, bent her body this way and that. The exotic costume let her move freely, unlike the tight-waisted, stiff, layered garments French women wore. And, the bare midriff—designed for a very warm climate—also suited Chateau Debussy under a blazing July sun. Inspecting herself in a mirror on the door, she smoothed the silk over her hips. A nearly perfect fit, thanks to Pressigny's practiced eye. She frowned, as if he had somehow violated her.

Claudine approached from behind and pinched the skirt at the waist. It needed no alteration. Her fingertips caressed the smooth silk falling in graceful folds. She pointed to a chair. “Please sit down. There's more.” She tied a yellow turban on Anne's head, then bent down to put a pair of purple slippers on her feet.

Anne gazed at the dressmaker, an intelligent, efficient woman in her forties, rather stout, but fine-featured, brown-eyed, with light brown skin and lustrous black hair. She bore a French given name and carried herself in the manner of a
bourgeoise
. Detecting Anne's curiosity, she stepped back, her brow creased, offended.

“You were sitting at the gatehouse window when we arrived.” Anne hastened to say.

“At work on your costume.” Claudine held Anne's eye in a level gaze. “I was born in Pondicherry to a French officer and his Indian wife. We came to this country thirty years ago, where I met my husband, Krishna, the steward.” She searched Anne's face for a moment, then glanced at the garment. “How do you like it?”

“It's lovely. And unusual. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

The dressmaker smiled, her eyes beaming with pride. “In India, it would be worn by a noble lady at the court of a prince, like Chanavas Khan.”

“Was it Comte Debussy's choice?”

“Yes. He saw my daughter Nalini wear it three years ago during a masquerade ball at the chateau. With paste jewelry of course. She was stunning. Carried herself like a queen. The comte could hardly take his eyes off her. The costume reminded him of India, where he made his fortune years ago—and of the beautiful women he knew there.” Her lips curled slightly in the hint of a sneer. She pointed to the skirt. “I've had to lengthen it. You are taller than she was.” She bit her lip, then turned suddenly away.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Anne shivered with horror, recalling Derennes and the corpse in the palace dungeon. “My God,” she murmured silently, “I'm wearing the murdered daughter's costume!”

Claudine slowly, methodically folded the garment bag, her neck bent, her features lined with sorrow. The maid wrung her hands and looked down at the floor. Touched by the dressmaker's grief, Anne gazed at her speechless, not knowing what to say.

Claudine pointed toward the door. “We're ready now to let the comte see you.”

As Anne emerged from the room, Debussy stared at her for a moment, then rang a bell. A dark-skinned man carried in a highly burnished wooden case which he opened on a nearby table. “Mademoiselle Cartier,” the comte said. “This is Krishna, my steward and the faithful guardian of my treasure. He has brought the jewelry to us.”

Krishna! Anne felt a surge of compassion for the man. Father of Nalini, Derennes' young victim. And for Claudine, her mother! Watching them carefully, Anne began to sense something prickly in the way they eyed one another. The two were husband and wife—but not friends. Had their daughter's tragedy spawned recriminations and soured their relationship?

At the comte's gesture, the dressmaker laid a cold, heavy necklace on Anne's chest and fastened the clasp behind her neck, fitted a gold tiara on to her turban and bracelets on her arms, wrists, and ankles, and hung pendants from her ears.

“Look at yourself, Mademoiselle,” said Debussy, pointing to a full-length mirror on the wall.

She walked toward it, self-consciously squaring her shoulders. “I look a little ridiculous,” she mumbled to herself, unaccustomed to acting as a mannequin. But, as she contemplated the jewelry, she found it dazzling. Its Indian creator had adorned the front of the tiara with a sculpted medallion of white jade as large as a man's hand. Behind the tiara, rising above the medallion, Claudine had attached a gold and enamel flower inlaid with several fine emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. Above the flower she had fitted a feather of pearls also set in gold and enamel.

A wide collar of gold links set with dozens of emeralds, pearls, and rubies encircled her neck. Ropes of pear-shaped diamonds cascaded over her chest and stomach. She gasped. Each diamond was at least the size of her thumbnail! She lifted her arms, bending them in front of her. Around her upper arms were matching wide gold bracelets, delicately designed, finely wrought, and as richly studded with irregularly shaped diamonds as were those on her wrists and ankles. She turned first left and then right, glancing in the mirror. Pear-shaped gold pendants, each studded with three exquisite oval diamonds, hung from cords looped over her ears.

The jewelry and costume brought Anne to a regal frame of mind. She turned around and walked back slowly toward Debussy as a gentle light poured through the windows. The precious stones glowed with a touch of the purple from the bodice; the gold glittered. An expression of rapture came over his face. “That will do very nicely, indeed,” he said softly. Claudine removed the jewelry and returned it to Krishna. The comte sighed softly, closed his eyes, and motioned everyone out of the room.

***

Chevalier de Pressigny lightly touched Anne's arm as they strolled away from the comte's apartment through a wide hallway, its walls hung with tapestry depicting hunting scenes. “Diana's displaying her charms,” he said, pointing to the nude huntress in sensual repose. “François Boucher's design.”

Studying the work, Anne began to suspect her companion of an ulterior motive, but she corrected herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his expression seemed almost innocent, suffused with delight in the elegance of the reclining female figure.

As they resumed their walk, Anne fell into thought. Gone was the rude manner he had displayed in the variety theater's dressing room where she had first met him. He was treating her now with respect, perhaps out of deference to Comtesse Marie de Beaumont and Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin. Or as a subtle tactic in a campaign of seduction.

He stopped before a massive door crowned by an ornate pointed gable that two marble nude male slaves struggled to support. Beckoning Anne, he began to pull the door open. “The comte's finest paintings and sculptures are in this gallery. He keeps the jewels and other priceless small objects in the treasury, the round tower room by his sleeping chambers.”

Anne recalled with a start the last time a lecherous young man, Simon Derennes, had shown her through a gallery. Wide-eyed, tense, she quickly scanned the hallway for an accomplice. Servants passed by in both directions, but none looked suspicious. A solid, honest-looking older woman approached who appeared to carry some authority in the chateau. The housekeeper, Anne thought, noting a ring of keys on her belt.

As the woman greeted Pressigny, apprehension flickered on his face but vanished almost immediately. “Good afternoon, Madame Soucie,” he responded, bowing slightly.

She returned the greeting, then nodded to Anne as if she knew her. Anne felt reassured. With relief she saw through the open door that it was indeed a gallery.

To her right, the large vaulted room stretched at least fifty paces along the chateau's garden side. Light was filtering through window blinds partially drawn to prevent damage to the carpets and tapestries. At an open window, Anne looked out over the garden to its centerpiece, an octagonal oriental pavilion, its reds, yellows, and blacks bleached by the noonday sun. She would visit it later.

They stopped in front of the portrait of a beautiful young seated woman in a full, yellow, silk gown richly brocaded in a floral pattern. Posing in three-quarter profile, a smile on her lips, she cast her eyes down toward a tiger cat that gazed inscrutably at the viewer. It lay on its side to the left of the chair on a thick, cream-colored damask cushion with gold fringe and tassels.