In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (22 page)

‘I swear on my mother’s life! How tall was he?’

‘About the same height as you, five foot seven. I couldn’t say whether he was fat or thin with that big coat on.’

‘Mademoiselle, you’ve saved my bacon! Here, I’ll buy one of your gardenias; it’ll make a pretty buttonhole.’

Bravo lad, a cake-walk. You’re becoming a right little Romeo! Right, grey hair, ‘The Cherry Season’, five foot seven, a fine harvest!

Iris was waiting in the hallway of the School of Oriental Languages on the corner of Rue de Lille and Rue des Saints-Pères. She had just attended a conference on
Genji Monogatari
and, as she’d been one of very few women in the lecture hall, and no doubt the youngest and the prettiest, all the men’s eyes had been on her. A few months earlier, she would have felt pleased as punch, but now her success with men infuriated and repulsed her. A curse on her beauty, if all it did was bring her unhappiness! Why couldn’t she be like those plain or even ugly girls who dazzle people with their intellect! Then she would not have fallen for Maurice Laumier’s smooth-talking charm and would have avoided the rift with the man dearest to her heart. The moral of this unfortunate story was enough to make a poor innocent girl faced with life’s dangers cynical: it was better to lie, or to leave out one or two important facts, rather than risk disaster.

She heard the echo of voices and footsteps behind her; the conference, which she’d left just before the end, must be over. She put her parasol up and left the place. The sound of running feet made her quicken her pace. Her pursuer, far from being discouraged, also speeded up. Exasperated, she swung round, ready to give the bounder a piece of her mind. She was unable to utter a word. The man whom she’d been studiously avoiding and who for his part had been giving her the cold shoulder stood motionless before her. Joseph, his cheeks bright pink, his hair tousled beneath his bowler, embarrassed at having chased her in that way, tried desperately to find the right thing to say. Who knows what guardian angel whispered to Iris the expression that would defuse the situation, but without pausing to weigh her words, she observed hurriedly, ‘Between love and friendship there is but one small step: backwards!’

Her words swept away the resentment that had built up between them. The words hung in the air, the corners of their mouths twitched and suddenly they were in fits of laughter.

‘Where…where did you get that from?’ hiccuped Joseph.

‘I read it in a magazine,’ she managed to reply before choking with laughter again.

Having finally composed themselves, they stared at one another for a long time, oblivious to the silence that was devoid of any awkwardness. They were together again! The invisible wall that had grown up between them had crumbled! How absurd their lovers’ tiff now seemed! Joseph stifled his urge to kiss Iris, although he sensed that she would have overlooked the impropriety of the gesture and let him. He was content to hold her hand. He took her to the Temps Perdu café
,
where he and Monsieur Legris occasionally went for some refreshment when they were out on one of their investigations. Sitting side by side, they marvelled at the sights on Quai Malaquais, where booksellers hoped to attract the attention of the strollers drawn to the cool shade under the trees.

‘I have but one wish, and that is to take a step forward,’ he said.

‘Do you still love me?’

‘I’ve never stopped adoring you!’

How wonderful life seemed all of a sudden! The love they thought had died, withered on the vine, was in full bloom like the flowers at La Madeleine…Blast! He had to tell the boss about his talk with the shapely flower girl. And then invent a good excuse for staying out with Iris until the evening.

‘I’m going to telephone your brother to tell him we’ll be late.’

‘Are we going out? Where?’

‘Wherever you like. Choose your drink as well. I’ll be back in a tick.’

And too bad if it breaks the bank! he thought.

A little jaunt together, somewhere in the city Kenji and Victor didn’t know about. How romantic and at the same time devilishly daring. Iris swelled with pride, convinced that she embodied the ideal of the
fin-de-siècle
young woman, emancipated, yet in control of her destiny. As if to prove it to herself, she ordered two quinquinas, and reflected on where she would like to go. By the time Joseph came back, she’d decided. He flopped down beside her, clutching his jaw.

‘Officially, I’ve got terrible toothache, on account of the heat. You and I ran into one another, and you kindly offered to accompany me to the dentist. The bosses weren’t convinced, your brother made a sort of clucking noise, and I could hear your father complaining about my frequent absences, so I was forced to howl down the telephone!’

‘You poor thing. Is it dreadfully painful?’

‘I’m all right now, but it was awful for a while.’

She blushed, and stammered, ‘One day, I was studying a dragonfly’s flight in Place du Panthéon. Attracted by a ray of sunlight, she’d lost her way and was in danger of being crushed by the traffic and the pedestrians. A gust of wind saved her from disaster…Will you ever forgive me?’

‘The war is over; we’re throwing in the towel. This moment marks the beginning of an era of peace.’

I must remember to put that in one of my novels, he thought.

‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go?’ he added, hoping that she would ask him to take her to the nearest secluded doorway.

‘Tasha’s father is very enthusiastic about the praxinoscope in his letters from America. I’d love to go to Théâtre Optique at Musée Grevin. They have showings until six o’clock.’

‘Why not? It’s certainly better than having a tooth pulled,’ he replied philosophically.

As he was counting up the few coins competing for the honour of a place in his pocket, he noticed that he’d lost his gardenia.

Of the three animated pictures advertised, Iris chose
Poor Pierrot
– although
The Clown and His Dogs
and
A Good Beer
⁵¹
looked equally amusing. She clapped excitedly throughout, like a little girl, and Joseph took the opportunity to put his hand on her knee to rein in her ardour. Forty minutes later they tore themselves away from the Cabinet Fantastique. Iris read out in a soft voice the programme of events advertised on the poster by Chéret:

POOR PIERROT, A PANTOMIME
Characters:
Pierrot, Harlequin, Colombine.

Harlequin is Laumier, Colombine is me, and poor Pierrot is…she said to herself.

The same thought had no doubt occurred to Joseph, because he yanked her away.

‘I’ve never seen anything so mesmerising!’ she declared.

‘There’s no mystery about these projections, Mademoiselle – or should I say Madame,’ remarked a man with a blond moustache in a light-coloured suit.

‘Mademoiselle, soon to be Madame,’ Joseph replied abruptly.

Iris was so captivated that the announcement went right over her head.

‘Do you know how it works? Oh, do tell me, please!’ she implored, to Joseph’s dismay.

‘Monsieur Émile Reynaud perfected the zoetrope, which an Englishman named Horner invented. Sketches of a figure in different phases of a movement are placed on the inside of a cylinder at the centre of which is a rotating mirrored drum. When you look through one of the holes it gives you the illusion of movement.’

‘It’s childish,’ remarked Joseph.

‘You’re right, the eye quickly tires of these simple, repetitive images, which is why Monsieur Reynaud’s idea of a strip of celluloid containing a series of drawings is so brilliant; the perforated images pass from one bobbin to another and are reflected onto a mirror which then projects the carefully drawn hand-coloured scenes through a lantern onto a screen.’

‘Do you work here?’ asked Joseph, jealous of the spellbound expression on Iris’s face.

Am I becoming worse than Monsieur Legris? He pulled himself up.

‘No, I’m a journalist at
Le Temps
.’

‘How marvellous! My fiancé writes for a newspaper, too.
Le Passe-partout
! He’s a well-known author of serialised novels.’

At these words, Joseph’s heart soared. Iris had called him her fiancé, and referred to his works! She’d atoned for her impulsiveness and the hack’s impudence.

‘Really? Why don’t we discuss it on the Boulevard? Allow me to invite you to dinner,’ the stranger proposed.

Joseph, his wallet almost empty, accepted gratefully.

How easily he’d snared these lovebirds, Frédéric Daglan thought to himself as he studied the clumsily written menu. A little technical knowledge gleaned from the newspapers together with the gift of the gab had been all it took.

‘It’s a simple, unpretentious place that suits my modest income. The lamb is delicious. I recommend it.’

‘Have you read
The Strange Affair at Colombines
?’ Iris asked.

‘Alas, Mademoiselle, I’m a financial columnist. Numbers distract me from literature – which as a lover of the arts I lament. What is the story behind this strange affair?’

The author of serialised novels began to relate a muddled plot, which was soon lost on Frédéric Daglan. He thought back over his day: the flower market at Place de la Madeleine, Josette Fatou looking particularly appealing amidst her roses, despite their prickles. He’d been about to introduce himself when this journalistic oaf had sprung out of nowhere and caused a fracas. And then, judging from the conspiratorial look on their faces, he’d come back to wheedle information out of the blonde negress. So when he’d leapt on an omnibus, Frédéric Daglan had followed close on his heels, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Then, on Quai Malaquais, he’d had to put up with the couple’s endless billing and cooing, after which he’d followed them in a cab to Rue Montmartre, where they’d taken in an animated spectacle. That was the price he’d had to pay in order to pin down the misguided scribbler.

‘And just then Dr Rambuteau orders the nurse to wash poor Félix Charenton,’
⁵²
concluded Jojo.

‘What a wonderful story, brilliantly constructed. And who is the author of this absorbing work?’

‘Joseph Pignot at your service, but you exaggerate, I’m just an amateur.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Monsieur…’

‘Renard, Cédric Renard.’

‘Joseph is always putting himself down, Monsieur Renard. Not only is he a published author, he’s also a bookseller.’

‘An excellent combination, Monsieur Pignot. Where do you exercise your talents?’

‘At 18, Rue des Saints-Pères. You may have heard of one of my bosses? Victor Legris. He’s solved a number of difficult crimes. I’m his right-hand man.’

Frédéric Daglan felt a knot in his stomach. Legris…Legris…The fleeting image of Madame Milent came into his mind. She was reading back to him a conversation she’d noted down between Inspector Pérot and a clean-shaven fellow…Legris? Yes, Legris. They’d lunched together at her place on…on the 19th.

‘Monsieur Legris is very clever,’ the fair-haired youth enthused. ‘But he wouldn’t be anywhere without me. Why, only today…’

Joseph bit his lip.

Frédéric Daglan heard his voice reply as though it belonged to somebody else.

‘Only today what?’ he echoed, helping himself to mashed potato.

Chatter on, my friend, chatter, blow your own trumpet. If I could tell you one thing, it would be: you’re not half as clever as you think, and there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Renard, my lips are sealed; nothing’s been solved. But you can expect the bomb to go off any minute!’

‘The bomb? Joseph, surely you haven’t…’ Iris began.

The waiter eyed them suspiciously.

‘Monsieur Renard, tell him not to worry, my fiancé is only joking.’

‘He was referring to an ice cream bombe, my friend,’ Daglan explained to the waiter. ‘Speaking of which, what are your desserts this evening?’

He threw himself into studying the dessert menu. Legris, Victor Legris. Yes, I remember now, the bookseller who fancies himself a sleuth. You thought you were acting alone, Daglan, but it appears you’ve got company. You’ll need to play a close game from now on.

‘Waiter! Three slices of nut tart and the bill, please!’

Victor nibbled on the biscuit he was holding in one hand while he turned Pierre Andrésy’s timepiece over in the other. He was only half listening to Tasha, who was leaning over the table where she kept her paints and charcoals.

‘It’s a beautiful story of love between an older man and a pure-hearted young girl, who is old for her years,’ she mumbled, a paintbrush between her teeth.

She chewed on the end of it, remembering how as a girl she used to nibble her pen while a French governess tried to din into her the basic rules of her language. The paintbrush joined its brothers and sisters in a pot next to the palette.

‘My favourite part is when she gives herself to him. “Take me then, since I give myself!” And then Zola writes: “Theirs was no fall from grace – glorious life raised them aloft; they belonged to one another in the midst of great joy.” He’s cocking a snook at morality, wouldn’t you say? Are you listening to me, Victor?’

‘Of course, darling,’ he assured her, closing his hand round the watch.

He felt something click, as though the casing had opened.

‘So, what was I saying?’

‘Goodness, you sound like a teacher interrogating her pupil. You were talking about…a book by Zola,’ he ventured, in a hurry to turn back to the fob watch.

‘Yes, but which one? You see, you weren’t listening! If you’d been paying the slightest attention to what I was saying, you’d have immediately said
Doctor Pascal.
Only you’re all the same, you men. The fact that a woman is capable of profound thought upsets your preconceived ideas.’ Wounded to the quick, she snatched at her paintbrushes.

‘Surely you and I are above these generalisations about men and women, darling. Forgive my inattention – blame it on this unsettled weather. In my eyes you’re Zola’s equal. Remember, I sacrificed my moustache for you, kitten,’ he whispered, placing his arms round her neck.