The Hanged Man (22 page)

“No, little one. It's just below a colonel.”

“Like grandpapa?”

“Yes, like your grandpapa Berthier. He was a great soldier—a fine man. So was my father, your grandpapa Lefebvre. He was a lawyer by profession, but he fought in the Crimea. He was wounded and decorated for bravery.”

The little mouth quivered. “If there was a war, would you have to fight?”

Achille saw the warning signs in her face and tried to make light of things. “You needn't worry about that. There won't be another war, or at least not for a very long time. By then, you'll be grown up and married with children and I'll be an old grandpa, much too old for fighting.” Then he tickled her ribs to make her laugh.

Adele knocked and entered with Mme Berthier. Adele noticed the horseplay and frowned at Achille. “You shouldn't make her excited at bedtime.”

He smiled and tousled Jeanne's hair. “We were just playing a game, weren't we, little one?”

“Yes, just a game,” the girl echoed.

Adele sat on the edge of the bed, examined her daughter's hair, and began straightening the stray locks. “Look what you've done, Achille. I had it brushed so nicely.”

Madame defied convention by defending her son-in-law. “Don't make such a fuss, Adele. After all, he hardly ever gets to see our pretty little cabbage.” She smiled and sat next to Adele. Leaning close to Jeanne, she whispered, “Now, say your prayers, darling. Then you may say good night to mama and papa, and give old granny a kiss.”

Jeanne behaved beautifully. Adele turned down the bedside lamp, and the three adults passed out into the hall. Out of earshot of the little girl, Mme Berthier observed, “She's a sweet child, Adele; much better than you were at that age. Good evening.”

Madame shuffled down the hall to her boudoir, and Achille turned to Adele. “Well, my dear. Are you ready for a smoke and a drink?”

Adele sighed. “I was ready two hours ago.” With that pithy comment, they retired arm-in-arm to the drawing room.

They sat together on a small, velvet-upholstered settee, he with his cigar and cognac, she with a cigarette and an
eau de vie de pêche
. For a moment, they savored the quiet pleasure of being together without interference, and they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Achille caught glimpses of Adele with sidelong glances. After seven years of marriage and two children, he could still be surprised by her beauty, and that was especially so in a tranquil evening hour when he could observe her silhouette in golden lamplight. She seemed to be dreaming with her eyes open, and he wondered if she were reflecting on the events of the day.

With all its mishaps and misadventures, it was still beautiful
, he thought. How many more such days would they share? No one could tell.
Our grip on life is tenuous, at best.
Achille had seen many coffins lowered into the earth, young men and women, ostensibly healthy, cut down early by disease, accident, crime, or in the line of duty.

Then there were the children, little ones like Olivier and Jeanne. They must run the gauntlet of childhood diseases. Achille had lost three siblings to scarlet fever and diphtheria; he had survived both. He thought of Maître François, the loneliness and decrepitude of old age, the inevitable end, the sickroom smell, a lingering death.
Perhaps it's best to go quickly, unexpectedly.
Achille recalled something he had read about Caesar. When asked how he preferred to die, the great dictator replied “Suddenly.”

“You're far away, darling.” Adele broke into his thoughts.

He saw her bright green eyes and warm red lips, inhaled her fresh fragrance. Smiling sheepishly, he set his cigar down in an ashtray and placed his empty glass on the coffee table, then turned to her. He reached over and toyed with a pearl earring dangling from a pretty lobe. “How lovely. I remember when I bought these. Wasn't it for your last birthday?”

“Actually, it was two years ago. Is that what you were thinking? My birthday's coming up, you know.”

He leaned over and kissed her ear. “No, that's not what I was thinking about, my love,” he whispered. “I was thinking about the river. For all my bungling, it still was a fine outing, wasn't it?”

She sighed and rested her head on his chest. “Yes, but I'm worried about that reporter. Do you think he'll write about the incident?”

“Oh, I suppose so, but I expect it'll be something benign.” He held her close and stroked her hair. “Anyway, I'm not going to let it bother me, but I'll have to mention the meeting to Féraud.”

For an instant, she seemed content to rest quietly in his arms. Then she gazed up at him and said, “There's something about this case that's troubling you more than usual. Would it help if you told me about it? You know I won't tell anyone, especially Mother.”

He smiled and brushed her lips with a finger. “Thank you, my dear, but I'm afraid I must give you the formal response: I can't discuss the case. But I will say this: I'm up against something new and pernicious. I'm not quite sure about the nature of the enemy, but I hope to learn more in the coming days. At any rate, I regret we won't have much time together, at least not until this matter is closed.” He paused, then continued on to a topic he hoped would be more pleasing to his wife. “We haven't had much of a social life. I've left you cooped up in this apartment with the children and Madame. I hope … I'm going to try to see that that changes in the future.”

“How will it change?” she asked, a hint of expectancy in her voice.

“We've talked about it, often enough. If I successfully conclude this case, I'll get my promotion, I'm sure of it. Things will change. There will be dinner parties with the prefect and his wife, balls and other social activities among the influential and powerful: magistrates, senators, deputies, generals, magnates, and their spouses. Would you like that?”

Her face clouded over for an instant, as if she were unsure of her answer. Finally, she replied hesitantly, “I … I don't know, Achille. I recall how it was for Mother, being the colonel's wife. She trained me for it. I can manage. I suppose I'd become one of those society women who entertains and goes around promoting her husband's career. I know how to play the part; I
believe
I could do it. It's just … oh, I don't know.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she sobbed on his shoulder.

Her reaction bewildered him. In all their previous discussions about his career, she had seemed enthusiastic. The pain and sadness in her expression hurt him deeply, especially since he believed he was somehow the cause of it.

He lifted her face and wiped her tears with his hands. “I'm sorry, my love. I thought this is what you—what we both—wanted. I can't bear to see you like this. Believe me, I'd chuck the promotion in an instant, if that's what you really wanted.”

She shook her head and protested vehemently. “How can you say that? You'd think yourself a failure, and blame me for the rest of our lives.” She paused a moment to catch her breath and regain her composure. “I'll be all right, Achille, I promise. It's just … the realization that I'm going to live my mother's life all over again. Her life, not
mine
. Do you understand?”

He did not understand, but he had to say something. “It needn't be that way. Women have more freedom nowadays, especially here in Paris. We have a partnership, you and I, and we'll work well together. Think of all the good things our success can bring, for the children and for us. I'm sure you'll enjoy the social whirl once you're into it.”

She smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes, I'm certain I shall. For now, I'd like another drink.”

Achille reached for the liqueur bottle, but Adele declined.

“I think I'd prefer something stronger—your cognac.”

“That's just the ticket,” Achille said. “And I'll have another, to brace up for my meeting with M. Rousseau.”

Adele laughed. “Are you so concerned about Rousseau? That's not for hours yet.” She took her glass from his hand and, for a moment, swirled the amber liquid around before tasting it. “Perhaps you should brace up for a more pressing engagement with me?”

Achille looked her squarely in the eye and twirled his moustache. “Ah, Madame, I don't need brandy to prepare for
that
!”

Aurore filled Orlovsky's glass with champagne. He took a sip and pronounced it “passable.” Next, she compulsively tested for freshness one of the cigars she had selected earlier, clipped the tip, and offered it to her patron. He accepted the Maduro-wrapped Havana nonchalantly, leaned forward so she could give him a light, and then relaxed back in his red plush chair, refocusing his attention on a troupe of Japanese acrobats performing on stage.

Aurore and Orlovsky occupied a reserved box at the Folies-Bergère, from which they had an excellent view of the stage, the stalls, and the encircling, mirror-lined promenade. A fog of tobacco smoke pervaded the hall, tinted by the yellowish radiance of hundreds of electric bulbs and gas mantles.

Orlovsky took a few puffs, and then turned from the performance to his companion. “Where is that little chit?” he snapped. “She ought to have come with you. If she doesn't arrive presently, I shall be vexed.”

Aurore frowned with remorse. “I'm very sorry, Monsieur. She'll be here soon, I promise,” she responded in a mollifying tone. Then, smiling hopefully, she added, “She has a surprise, Monsieur. I'm sure you'll be pleased.”

Orlovsky sneered. “A surprise, eh? It had better be good for her sake—and yours.”

Aurore trembled at the threat of punishment, her behind having barely recovered from a recent “correction.” She glanced nervously in the direction of the entrance to the promenade, and after a minute of desperate searching she sighed with relief. Half-standing, she leaned against the partition and pointed toward the corridor on the other side of the hall.

“You see, Monsieur,” she cried, “there they are!” Aurore pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and waved in the same direction to which she had pointed.

Orlovsky grabbed her by the sleeve. “Don't make a scene,” he hissed. “And who, pray tell, are
they
?”

Returning to her chair, she replied, “It's Apolline and Delphine Lacroix. Delphine's the surprise. I hope you're pleased?”

Orlovsky scanned the perambulating throng and caught sight of the
poule
walking arm-in-arm with a dark, elegantly dressed young woman. He smiled and nodded in their direction.

“It's all right, then, Monsieur?” Aurore asked timidly.

“Yes, yes, it's all right. But you ought to have told me. At any rate, I am surprised to see Mlle Delphine walking the promenade. I thought she was above that sort of thing.”

“Oh, she's no longer a card-carrying regular,” confided Aurore. “But she's still on very good terms with the management. And she's not ‘walking the promenade,' so to speak. She's here at our invitation, to meet you.”

Orlovsky grinned broadly. “I see. A moment ago, you and Apolline were in danger of a good hiding. Now, you might be in line for a nice present or two, provided, of course, that the evening progresses to my satisfaction.”

“Oh, thank you, Monsieur,” the girl gushed, with a mixture of relief for having escaped a whipping and greed for the anticipated reward.

Delphine and Apolline arrived at the entrance to the box and, bubbling over with excitement, Apolline made the introductions. “M. Orlovsky, permit me to introduce my dear friend, Mlle Delphine Lacroix.”

Orlovsky rose to his feet and made a courteous bow. “I'm honored, Mademoiselle. I have admired your singing on many occasions. Will you allow me the great pleasure of entertaining you in my box?”

Delphine smiled seductively. “You are too kind, Monsieur. It will be my pleasure to join you.”

She entered, followed by Apolline. Orlovsky gestured to a nearby waiter for more chairs and another bottle of champagne, and this time he specified a better vintage. Once seated and served, Orlovsky engaged Delphine in small talk flatteringly centered upon her career. Aurore and Apolline amused themselves by watching the acts, though they remained attentive to the needs of their master and his guest. Eventually, the conversation turned to Delphine's most recent performance. After thanking Orlovsky for his praise, Delphine referred to the young gentleman in their company who seemed so engrossed in the performance.

Orlovsky raised an eyebrow and smiled shrewdly. “Ah, you mean young M. de Gournay.”

“Oh, is that his name?” Delphine replied casually, taking a cigarette from her purse.

“Permit me, Mademoiselle.” Orlovsky struck a match and lit her cigarette, then blew out the match and dropped it in an ashtray. “Gournay is a young gentleman from Normandy, a man of good family forced by circumstances to go into trade. Nevertheless, he has made a great success in business and I am one of his best clients.” He paused a moment to read Delphine's face. He detected interest in her sparkling eyes and sensually parted lips. “If you'd care to make his acquaintance, I'd be pleased to introduce you.”