The Predator of Batignolles E-Book

Claude Izner

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 439

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In the turbulent Parisian summer of 1893, Victor Legris has vowed to give up the dangerous hobby of amateur sleuthing to concentrate on selling books. But a murderer is at large in Paris, intent on revenge for events that took place many years before during the Commune. And when a bookbinder friend of Victor's becomes the latest victim of the mysterious Leopard, the young bookseller feels impelled to resume his detective work and uncover the identity of the Batignolles predator.

Leseprobe

Praise for Claude Izner:

‘Full of pungent period detail’ The Observer

‘A cracking, highly satisfying yarn’ The Guardian

‘An extremely enjoyable, witty and creepy affair’ Independent on Sunday

THE PREDATOR OF BATIGNOLLES

CLAUDE IZNER

Translated by Lorenza Garcia

To those without whom

Claude Izner would never have existed:

Ruhléa and Pinkus

Rosa and Joseph

Étia and Maurice

To Boris

To our bouquiniste friends on the banks of the Seine

When Paris closes its eyes at nightIn the dark of the cemetery Screams escape from the stones Of the wall

Jules Jouy     

(Le Mur, 1872)     

So who ordered this terrible violence?

Victor Hugo     

(‘Un cri’, L’Année terrible, 1872)     

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Plan of Victor Legris’s Paris

The Predator of Batignolles

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Notes

About the Author

Also by Claude Izner:

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Paris, spring 1891

AWINDOW opened on the second floor and the light glancing off the panes caught the attention of a passer-by. He saw a woman leaning over a pot of geraniums, and next to it a little dog watching the comings and goings on Rue Lacépède, its muzzle pressed up against the latticed railing. The woman tipped a small watering can. Splish splash! Water dripped onto the pavement.

The corpse lies face down on the ground. A pinkish trickle seeps from the faded blue jacket, staining the gutter. Already stiff, the fingers rest on the butt of a bayoneted rifle. A soldier in a grey greatcoat seizes the rifle; the blade pierces the lifeless body. The soldier braces himself to pull it out.

The little dog barked; the image dissolved. The man quickened his pace, anxious to escape the past. But just as he reached Rue Gracieuse a horse yoked to a delivery cart stumbled and fell. The cart tipped on its side and began sliding down the hill, dragging the poor creature by its harness. The mare kicked, struggled and then gave up, defeated.

The linesmen swarm before the shattered barricades. They take aim at the Communards who flee, trying desperately to rip the red stripes, their death warrant, off their trousers. A volley of machine-gun fire ploughs into a trench where a bay horse is trapped. A terrible whinnying rings out above the thud of bullets. 

A cry goes up: ‘The Versailles Army!’

A headlong rush, caps, flasks, haversacks and belts scattered everywhere. The city has turned out its pockets.

The man leant back against the shop front of a dairy. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, stifling a sob. He must rid himself of these images once and for all! When would they stop tormenting him? Would the passing years never drown out the horror?

A few people had gathered around the cart. The driver, with the help of a local constable and a couple of passers-by, managed to get his horse back on its feet and with a crack of the whip he was off.

The man moved on, calmed now by the peaceful surroundings of Rue de l’Estrapade. He passed a blacksmith’s reeking of singed hoof, then a confectioner’s and a drycleaner’s. A delivery girl came out of a bakery carrying a load of four-pound loaves. A costermonger wheeling her barrow cried out, ‘Cabbages! Turnips! Bushels of potatoes! Who’ll buy my lovely lettuces! Handpicked this morning at dawn!’

In her curlpapers and faded calico dress she looked like a princess fallen on hard times. She winked at the man as he stepped aside to let her pass, and bawled at the top of her voice, ‘Cherry ripe! Cherry ripe! First crop of the season! Don’t be the last to taste them!’

‘Too dear,’ retorted a woman coming the other way.

‘That’s because they’re like gold dust and they still make cheaper earrings than rubies!’

The man found himself singing: 

‘I will for ever love the cherry season

Those distant days have left in my heart

A gaping wound!’1

Ravaged façades of buildings, cobblestones blackened with gunpowder and strewn with belongings thrown from windows. In Place de l’Estrapade soldiers from the Versailles Army with their sabres and tricolour armbands form a firing squad. They aim their rifles at a Communard officer with double-braided silver bands on his cap.

‘Fire!’

In Rue Saint-Jacques, the clatter of a passing cab freed the man from his nightmare. Some sparrows and pigeons were fighting over a pile of dung as a woman scooped it up with a shovel. A drunkard stumbled out of a bar-cum-cobbler’s, run by a man from the Auvergne.

‘What will those ministers of injustice cook up next to crush us common folk!’ he roared through wine-soaked breath.

The man felt a sudden thirst and was about to enter the bar when a sign caught his eye:

SAXOLEINE

Certified, refined paraffin oil, deodorised, non-flammable …

A brunette with a plunging neckline was adjusting the flame of a lamp whose red shade stood out against a bluey-green background.

The poster was now a palimpsest. A long list appeared on the grey wall. Six columns with hundreds of names: 

WOMEN PRISONERS

At Versailles …

Outside a wine shop, an old man is sprawled across the pavement. He is barefoot, his legs covered in sores. A policeman leans over and presses the neck of a bottle to the man’s lips; laughter rings out. Inside, at the counter, Versailles Army officers and civilians loudly toast victory, their faces flushed with drink. In Rue des Écoles, firing squads are carrying out summary executions on a huge expanse of wasteland.2 A wagon crawls along, a pile of corpses visible through its open door. Policemen in shiny-buttoned uniforms force the locals to take down a barricade. A woman cries over some bodies, their skulls smashed in. A soldier slaps her.

On Rue Racine, a firing squad trains its rifles on a boy accused of stuffing a handful of incriminating cartridges through the grating of a drain to help his father. The officer raises his arm.

‘Wait!’

A beggar next to the boy is resisting efforts to push him forward.

‘I took these shoes off a dead soldier, I swear!’

‘Line them up!’

Line ’em up!

We heard the captain shout

Stuffing his mouth

’N’ filling his cup

Line ’em up!3

The man realised that he would have to give in: he hadn’t the strength to bury the past. 

The leaves on the horse chestnuts cast pools of shade over the alleyways in the Luxembourg Gardens. Boys in sailor suits rolled their hoops around the statue of a lion guarding the Observatory steps. The man collapsed onto a bench and watched the hoops turning under the light touch of the sticks. Twenty years on, he could still see the woman.

Clasping an infant to her bosom, her expression frozen like a death mask, she has just recognised her husband among the prisoners. She hurls herself towards him. A blow from a rifle butt sends her reeling; the baby falls to the ground.

A hoop rolled up to the man’s shoe, wobbled and fell over.

The sightless eyes of the statues contemplate the bodies piled up on the lawns. Rows of men, their faces pale with fright, file out of the Senate and are led over to the central pond: Communards, civilians informed on by their neighbours, people with dirty hands or who just don’t look quite right. The rifles dispense death. The first rows of men crumple and are immediately buried under those falling on top of them. The blood flows; the soldiers doing the butchering, the endless butchering, are knee-deep in blood. The mass graves are numberless: L’École Militaire, the Lobau barracks, Mazas, Parc Monceau, Buttes-Chaumont, Père-Lachaise. Upholsterers bear the bodies away. Paris reeks of rotting flesh.

Eight days was how long it went on for. Eight days. Every afternoon, at the foot of Pont Neuf, respectable folk gathered to witness the massacre. Twenty thousand souls put to death in Paris by court-martials and summary executions.

Eight days that refused to dissolve into the thousands of others the man sitting on the bench in the Luxembourg Gardens had experienced. Eight days that would haunt him until his dying breath.

The gunpowder, the blood, the hatred, the walls – people had been lined up against the nearest wall and shot.

Would he go insane? Or would he find his own walls, his own way of meting out justice?

A toy boat streaked across the central pond. Cries, laughter, bursts of music, a refrain:

Here comes the flower seller.

Buy a spray of forget-me-nots

To brighten up your day.

Forget? He couldn’t forget. He must act. It was the only way of freeing himself from this insufferable burden: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. 

CHAPTER ONE

Two years later

Sunday 11 June 1893

THE train deposited a dozen punters in striped pullovers and straw boaters on the platform before letting out a long jet of steam. The passengers clogged the exit for a moment before setting off towards the riverbank, where families dressed in their Sunday best and a podgy man in a checked bowler hat were also headed.

The man made a beeline for Pont de Chatou without so much as a glance towards the shimmering water, which was dotted with boats in the unseasonably warm spring weather. A barge whistled. The man dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and paused to light a cigar before shuffling off again.

Meanwhile an imposing-looking fellow sat sipping a glass of beer at a table outside Cabaret Fournaise in the middle of the island. His eyes were fixed on the potbellied figure in the checked bowler. He was momentarily distracted by the couples dancing beneath the poplars to a lively polka being played by three musicians on a nearby bandstand; tapping his foot to the music, he admired a narrow skiff as it darted out from behind the bend in the Seine. But his attention soon turned back to the portly chap, who was making the floorboards creak as he approached.

‘Right on time! You certainly don’t keep people waiting,’ he said, stretching nonchalantly.

‘This blasted heat! The sweat’s dripping off me. Is there somewhere quieter where we can talk?’

‘I’ve reserved a private room upstairs.’

They crossed the restaurant where waiters were busy bringing plates of fried smelts, sautéed potatoes and jugs of white wine to the tables. A flight of stairs took them up to a landing and they entered a room at the end. They sat down, face to face, and studied each other. The man in the bowler had puffy eyes and broken veins on his fleshy face, which was framed by a mop of curly hair and grizzled whiskers. He looked like a shaggy dog.

No wonder they call him the Spaniel, thought his companion, who had an aquiline nose and a jauntily turned up blond moustache.

He himself had a cat-like physique. His expression was half mocking, half disdainful, and he looked constantly on the verge of laughter. He exuded an innate charm, which made him very successful with women, but so far had failed to win over his sullen companion.

‘Call the waiter, I’m in a hurry,’ grumbled the Spaniel, crushing his cigar stub underfoot.

‘Don’t worry, Monsieur, they know we’re here. I’m a regular. We’ll get the royal treatment. While we’re waiting, tell me how much I’ll be getting.’

‘Two hundred. It’s an easy job.’ 

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Purloin a few cigar holders.’

‘You’re pulling my leg, Monsieur! Two hundred francs for some cigar holders?’

‘They’re made of amber. Will you do it, Daglan?’

‘How many do you need?’

‘About fifty – more if possible.’

‘And where do I find this junk?’

‘Bridoire’s Jeweller’s. Rue de la Paix, on the corner of Rue Daunou. If you pocket any trinkets, put them on ice – you can fence them later.’

The door opened and two waiters came in, one carrying a roast turkey, the other a bottle of Muscadet, glasses, plates and a bowl of frites on a tray. The waiters laid the table, carved the bird, served the wine and left.

‘Enjoy, Monsieur.’

The Spaniel gave a whistle.

‘Well, blow me, no wonder you’re always broke if you spend your money like this, my lad,’ he mumbled, piercing a drumstick with his fork.

‘A smile at last! I’ve a confession: the turkey didn’t cost me a penny. But then they don’t come craftier than me!’

Indeed, in his criminal career, Frédéric Daglan had distinguished himself in many ways – enough to make the list of the ten brightest and best brigands. He had started out as a thief, substituting fake silver for real, then became apprenticed to a confidence trickster. He possessed keen powers of observation, was a talented scout and had a fertile imagination. He was also well versed in the penal system, and had become an expert in coded language, thus avoiding any mishaps should his messages be intercepted.

‘So this turkey cost you nothing? How very amusing! Then tell me how you came by it,’ said the Spaniel, stuffing a huge piece of roasted skin in his mouth.

‘Yesterday, I was hanging around in the lobby of the Palais de Justice, waiting for a friend, and I saw His Honour Judge Lamastre, you know the fellow I mean – wields his gavel with the ease of a carpenter and sends people down for nothing! That’s when I heard him mutter to a colleague: “Damned nuisance, I left my watch at home this morning. Can’t bear not knowing the time during a hearing. And I’m on duty until late tonight: the jurors are deliberating in the high court.” His words didn’t fall on deaf ears! I’ve been hobnobbing with these law lords for years, and where they live is no secret to me. I didn’t hang about. I bought a nice fat turkey, and rang our dear Judge Lamastre’s doorbell.’

‘You rogue!’ bawled the Spaniel, taking a swig of wine.

‘A servant let me in and I told him: “I’ve come to deliver this stuffed turkey, which His Honour Judge Lamastre purchased on his way to court. It’s for lunch tomorrow. He told me that while I was at it I should fetch his chronometer, which he left at home this morning, and assured me I’d be paid for my trouble.” See how polite I can be, Monsieur.’

‘I see that you’re a prize scoundrel.’

‘The servant informed his unsuspecting mistress, Madame Lamastre, who took delivery of the turkey and handed me the watch together with a fifty-centime tip – those worthies are a stingy lot.’

‘What did you do with the watch, you rascal?’

‘I sold it sharpish, for forty francs. It was worth at least a thousand. Times are hard, Monsieur, and fences are unscrupulous in their dealings with the poor.’

‘And the turkey?’

‘Early the next day, I sent my mate to fetch it. There it was already roasting on the spit, its skin turning that golden brown which is a delight to anyone who’s fond of their food. “Quick,” said my friend, “hand over the turkey. His Honour Judge Lamastre has sent me to fetch it. The thief who stole his watch is under lock and key and the court demands to see the incriminating evidence.” This explanation seemed credible to Madame Lamastre, who swallowed it whole. She ordered the bird to be removed from the spit, and given to my chum, who hurried off, not wanting to keep the judges waiting, you understand. And how is my bird?’

‘Utterly delicious, you devil!’ acknowledged the Spaniel, quivering with laughter.

He wiped his mouth and began cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

‘So, can I count on you?’

‘When do you need your cigar holders?’

‘A week today, here, same time.’

‘That’s not much time.’

‘You’ll have to manage as best you can. And if anything goes wrong, mum’s the word, all right? We’ve never met.’

‘Rest assured, when Frédéric Daglan’s lips are sealed, the Devil himself couldn’t prise them open. Go on, drink up and eat your fill. It’d be a shame to waste such a handsome bird, especially as I can’t promise you another one next Sunday!’

The afternoon of the same day

The Église Sainte-Marie-des-Batignolles with its triangular pediment and Doric columns was reminiscent of a Greek temple. Beside it, an ornamental grotto, a waterfall and a tiny stream were laid out in an oasis of greenery which overlooked the railway tracks. Frédéric Daglan strolled around the miniature lake where a few ducks were splashing. Slung over his shoulder was a case with a faded coat of arms on its flap depicting a blue and gold leopard passant. He reflected on the situation: two hundred francs was a lot for stealing a few cigar holders, even if they were made of amber. What was that fat pig cooking up? He would have him tailed – he had to cover myself.

He stopped next to a park keeper’s hut. An elderly veteran in a shabby uniform gave him a military salute.

‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Daglan.’

‘Good afternoon, Brigadier Clément. How’s life treating you? Any pickings today?’

‘A teat, a stick without its hoop, a knitting needle and a comic. Oh, Monsieur Daglan, the worst thing is not being able to sit down! They’re giving me the chop, you know. They say I’m too old, even though I do my job properly. After fifty you’re a burden on the state. I’ll be gone by the end of August. The missus is worried sick, what with our boy scarcely earning his crust at the Gouin machine shop, and a growing girl at home! We’ll just have to manage on the small pension they give me. By the way, the missus said to thank you for the cherries. They’re very dear this year so she was pleased as punch. She plans to make jam out of them and a special jar of cherries in brandy for you.’

‘Don’t mention it – they cost me nothing.’

‘Are you going to work, Monsieur Daglan?’

‘Yes, I’m going to write out the evening menus. It’s pretty straightforward. The taverners give the leftovers from lunch another name and, hey presto, tuna in sauce verte becomes tuna mayonnaise, tomatoes in butter sauce turn into stuffed tomatoes, and so on.’

Daglan slipped the old man a coin.

‘Here’s a little something for you, Père Clément. And don’t worry, you won’t need to hock any of your belongings while I’m around.’

‘Oh no, Monsieur Daglan, no charity, please!’

‘Charity, Père Clément? Do you want to hurt my feelings? The path of life is strewn with obstacles. Somebody helped me once – now it’s my turn.’

Friday 16 June

A builder with face and hair covered in plaster dust was passing the stables owned by the Debrise Brothers, a stone’s throw from Église Saint-Denis-de-la-Chapelle. He stopped outside a bar and washed his hands at a pump where carters filled pails for watering their horses. The air smelt of fresh cheese and milk. The builder pulled down his cap, crossed the roundabout near the coal yard and walked down Rue Jean-Cottin, with its hotchpotch of buildings.

The builder passed a boy bouncing a ball against a fence. The boy gave him a knowing look and began chanting:

‘General Kléber,

At the gates of Hell

Met a Prussian

Who wished him well.’ 

The builder gave a faint nod, and entered the courtyard of a run-down building. Slowly, he climbed the stairs up several floors. On reaching the third floor, he took a pick from his pocket, slipped it into a keyhole without touching the escutcheon, found the latch and carefully lifted it.

The first room was cluttered, with a mirrored wardrobe, a table, a glass-fronted bookcase, four chairs and a stove.

The builder removed his shoes and began a meticulous search. The wardrobe contained only two jackets, a waistcoat, three pairs of trousers and two sets of bed linen. In the bedroom were an unmade bed, a pile of dirty laundry and a slop bucket. He lifted the mattress quickly. The tension in his face eased as his eye alighted on a brown briefcase in the middle of the bed base. He pulled a bundle of documents out of it and studied them closely. He froze in amazement.

‘Good God! The dirty …!’

His throat tightened; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to stifle his mounting rage. Stay calm, he told himself. 

Outside the boy squawked:

‘Who left the people to rot?

That was Riquiqui’s lot.’ 

The builder drew back the curtain. Two women stood chattering in the courtyard.

He put everything back in its place and, checking that he’d left no traces, picked up his shoes and went out. After clicking the latch behind him, he started back down the stairs.

At the bottom, Frédéric Daglan tied his shoelaces, his hands shaking.

Saturday 17 June

At lunchtime there was no one left in the shops on Rue de la Paix. A wave of clerks and female workers headed for the cheap eateries on the Boulevards. Dressmakers, salesmen, seamstresses and clerks jostled one another, pushing past the cashiers from Crédit Lyonnais who were enjoying a smoke in the doorways of the restaurants where they would feast on boiled beef and bacon stew. A pair of constables eyed up the apprentice dressmakers in their white blouses, black skirts and coloured ankle boots forced onto the road by the crowds. A laundress paused in a doorway, took a croissant and a slab of chocolate out of her bag and began eating, oblivious to the bawdy comments of a housepainter sitting astride his stepladder. Gradually, the neighbourhood fell silent. The only people left were a news vendor sitting in her kiosk, a bread roll on her lap; a concierge sweeping the pavement vigorously; and a lad in an apron listlessly cleaning a jeweller’s shop window under the watchful eye of a constable.

A donkey and cart pulled up next to the constable. The driver, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, doffed his cap.

‘Excuse me, Constable, could you direct me to Bridoire’s Jeweller’s, please?’

‘It’s right here,’ said the copper, pointing at the shop window, which the lad in the apron had just finished cleaning.

‘Bother, it’s closed! I was supposed to deliver a crate here this morning. I won’t have time this afternoon. What if I leave it in the doorway? Nobody would dare steal it with you around …’

The constable paused, scratched his head then nodded.

‘All right, son. The shop assistants will be back at one thirty.’

Together they heaved the crate up against the shop door.

‘It weighs a ton. What have you got in there, lead?’ asked the policeman.

‘It’s marble. Much obliged to you!’

The cart moved off down Rue Gaillon, briskly overtaking two cabs and an omnibus, then turned into Rue de Choiseul.

Constable Sosthène Cotret discharged his mission with remarkable zeal considering he stood to gain nothing. In the meantime he allowed himself the pleasure of contemplating an amber smoking kit, which was displayed next to a gold-plated tumbler and a set of sapphire jewels. He pictured himself blowing smoke rings into Inspector Pachelin’s face, and imagined his superior gazing enviously at Madame Julienne Cotret wafting through the police station in a sparkling tiara. 

He was so rapt in his daydream that he didn’t notice the same cart pulling up three quarters of an hour later. The young delivery man had to tap him on the shoulder, immediately apologising for his forwardness.

‘I only delivered the wrong blooming crate, didn’t I? My boss almost killed me! I’ve brought the right one this time. Would you mind helping me swap them over?’

They replaced the first crate with the second. Sosthène Cotret’s joints groaned under the strain and he cursed his bad luck for being allotted this beat.

‘Blimey, what a weight! Is this marble, too?’

‘Yes. The difference is this one’s red and the other one’s black. Much obliged, Constable.’

Sosthène Cotret cursed as he rubbed his aching back, knowing that his blasted sciatica would soon make him pay for his obliging nature.

Monday 19 June

Perched on his stepladder behind the counter at the Elzévir bookshop, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Joseph Pignot, bookshop assistant, was reading aloud from Le Passe-partout for the benefit of his boss, Victor Legris, who was paying little attention to what he considered a trivial news items.

‘… It was at one thirty that the shop assistants of Bridoire’s Jeweller’s noticed the break-in. Curiously, only smoking accessories had been stolen. Why had the thieves ignored the diamond bracelets, precious pearls, watches and valuable silver and gold pieces? Equally puzzling is the fact that policeman Sosthène Cotret, who was on duty in Rue Daunou at the time, saw nothing – despite claiming that he didn’t take his eyes off the shop window. The authorities should supply him with a pair of spectacles!

When the second crate was opened it was found to contain nothing but sand.

According to Inspector Pachelin, the burglar must have hidden in the first crate, which had a removable side. He then cut a disc-shaped hole in the door of the jeweller’s just wide enough for him to enter the shop. Having grabbed the loot, he climbed back into the crate, replaced the wooden disc and covered his traces with putty and a paint containing drying agent. All he had to do then was wait until his accomplice came back to swap the crates.

‘Clever, isn’t it, Boss? Still, it seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a few cigar holders and pipes!’

Glancing up from his newspaper, Joseph was dismayed to see Victor absorbed in reading the order list.

‘You’re not listening.’

‘You’re wrong there, Joseph. I’m hanging on your every word. This crime reminds me of Hugo de Groot’s4 daring escape.’

‘Who?’

‘Hugo de Groot – a seventeenth-century Dutch lawyer who was imprisoned for life in Loevestein Castle. Escape seemed impossible. He was allowed books, which he devoured in such quantities that they had to be ferried in and out in a trunk. Two years into his incarceration, Hugo decided to try his luck. He climbed into the trunk and managed to escape. You see how reading brings freedom, Joseph.’

‘Yes … but I don’t see what that has to do with cigar holders?’

‘Nothing … Aren’t you supposed to be delivering a copy of Pierre Maël’s5Honour and Country to the Comtesse de Salignac?’

‘I’ve already been there, and it wasn’t any fun! I see you have great faith in me! You’re getting a bit tyrannical, Boss!’

Joseph, furious, snatched up a pair of scissors and cut out the article, muttering to himself. ‘The boss should learn to hold his tongue. If this goes on much longer, I’ll be off to greener pastures.’

‘Believe me, Joseph, you’d soon tire of the countryside; nothing can compare to the thrill of the city. I’m sorry if I upset you – I didn’t intend to.’

‘You’re forgiven, Boss,’ Joseph decreed loftily.

‘Would you like to see the gift Mademoiselle Iris and I have chosen for Monsieur Mori’s birthday?’

‘When is it?’

‘The twenty-second.’

‘How old will he be?’

‘Fifty-four. You’re invited to the little gathering.’

‘I shan’t be going, and you know why. What are you giving him?’

‘A rare volume on Japan.’

‘Are you trying to make your adoptive father homesick? How long is it since he left, twenty or thirty years? He should take his daughter on a pilgrimage. They’re very strong on loyalty over there!’ 

‘A little more respect for Mademoiselle Iris, please, Joseph. She hasn’t been unfaithful to you.’

‘I’m only pointing out that your half-sister’s European side has made her frivolous.’ Joseph added, bitterly, ‘And anyway, what’s keeping me here?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! All you do is whine and moan and feel sorry for yourself! Show a bit of spirit, for goodness’ sake! Don’t give up at the first hurdle! I’m sure she loves you and is full of remorse; she never stops saying so, you great dolt!’

Victor composed himself then paused before adding, ‘Jojo, I hope that you two haven’t … er, well, you know, the birds and the bees and the butterflies …’

‘No, Boss, we vowed not to give in to our animal instincts before marriage and, if you want the truth, I regret it,’ replied Joseph.

He looked at Victor with a strange expression then burst out angrily, ‘If it had been you, if Mademoiselle Tasha had behaved like that, you would have had fifty fits, with your suspicious nature!’

‘Me? Suspicious?’

Shocked and horrified, Victor threw his arms up to heaven, ready to swear that he’d cured himself of his bad habit, when the doorbell tinkled.

Blanche de Cambrésis swept in. The lace trim on her dark-red pleated dress snagged on a pile of Émile Zola’s Doctor Pascal, recently published by Charpentier and Fasquelle, bringing it crashing to the floor. Victor gathered up the books while his visitor remarked on how cramped the shop was.

‘We remove the chairs, replace the desk with a pedestal table and still the battle-axe isn’t satisfied,’ muttered Joseph, who was hiding behind a wall of quarto volumes.

‘Is it any good?’ asked Blanche de Cambrésis, whose haughty expression made her look like a nanny-goat.

‘Tripe, Madame, utter tripe. How may I help you?’ Victor enquired in a conciliatory voice.

Unable to bear it any longer, Joseph made a dash for the back of the shop where he vented his anger.

‘Just listen to him fawning. He probably expects me to grovel at his sister’s feet, though he wasn’t exactly keen on our engagement in the beginning, any more than Monsieur Mori. But now the tables are turned, they can’t wait for me to marry her and put a stop to all the gossip. Even Maman has turned against me. It’s not fair!’ he muttered, dusting off the coats-of-arms on the backs of a set of hardbacks.

The touch of leather in his hands calmed his rage. Images of the not so distant past flashed painfully through his mind. How fleeting his joy had been back in February when his bosses had not only celebrated his engagement to Iris but given him a rise. Since then he’d been earning one thousand six hundred francs a year. This allowed him to put aside a substantial sum as he and Iris would be taking over Monsieur Legris’s old flat above the bookshop. Joseph had been keen to move in as soon as possible, but had said nothing to his future wife, who appeared not to share his need for independence, and was still very attached to her father.

And then Mademoiselle Tasha, whom he so admired, had taken it into her head to paint Iris’s portrait! How was he to know it would be the cause of such strife? Accordingly, he’d no more objected to his fiancée posing for her than he’d tried to dissuade her from taking twice-weekly watercolour lessons with Mademoiselle Tasha’s mother, Madame Djina Kherson. The latter had recently emigrated from Russia via Berlin and thanks to Monsieur Legris was now living in Rue des Dunes, near Buttes-Chaumont.

March had been taken up with preliminary drawings. Iris could talk of nothing else, to the point where Monsieur Mori had nicknamed her ‘Mona Lisa’. And then one day a painter friend of Mademoiselle Tasha’s, the conceited Maurice Laumier whom Monsieur Legris had never liked, had seen one of her sketches on an easel. He had praised her artistic progress and the model’s beauty. Who was she? Mademoiselle Tasha replied that she was Victor Legris’s half-sister. Maurice Laumier had used the age-old method of the lightning strike – his main weapon surprise, his lure throwing himself on his quarry’s mercy. He had approached her hat in hand.

‘Mademoiselle, I don’t usually accost young ladies in the street, but when I saw you coming out of my fellow artist Tasha Kherson’s house I couldn’t stop myself. You see, I’ve been commissioned to paint an exotic portrait of the Virgin Mary to exhibit at this year’s Salon, and when I saw those extraordinary eyes, that flawless complexion, your adorable face, I …’

Later on, in floods of tears, Iris had given her father, brother and fiancé a blow-by-blow account of the repulsive tale. She’d portrayed herself as a poor innocent girl, ambushed outside Tasha and Victor’s home by a man whose name she already knew. Why should she have mistrusted this attractive charmer in search of a model with Asian features? 

At this point in the story, Joseph had had little difficulty imagining the young girl succumbing to the virility of the handsome dauber; he could understand why she would prefer this Don Juan to a hunchback like him; he could understand how from then on she’d woven her web of lies in order to be able to carry on her twice-weekly meetings with that libertine from Rue Girardon. Yes, he understood – he was a writer, after all – but he could not forgive!

The ‘poor ingénue’ had then explained to Djina Kherson that she must give up her watercolour classes and had begged her not to tell anybody. She wanted to surprise her fiancé. She’d had no difficulty believing her own lies: she would buy Maurice Laumier’s portrait as well as Tasha’s and make a gift of them to Joseph as a mark of her undying love!

Joseph did not want to know what had really taken place in the notorious womaniser’s studio. According to Iris, after four or five sessions the painter had stolen a kiss, and two or three weeks later he’d taken liberties that had earned him a slap. Finally, towards the middle of May, when she had confused her dates and turned up at Laumier’s studio on the wrong day, he had appeared at the door in shirt-tails and declared his love for her. At that very moment, the door separating the studio and the bedroom had opened to reveal a totally naked woman. The shrew had bombarded Iris with insults, which she was too polite to repeat, unless she washed out her mouth with soap and water afterwards.

She had confessed everything to Joseph and begged his forgiveness. She’d been so filled with remorse that even Euphrosine Pignot, outraged by her son’s heartlessness, had leapt to her defence, growling, ‘Men! Scoundrels the lot of them!’

Joseph had been unbending. He announced that he was postponing their wedding date, set for the end of July, indefinitely. For the past six weeks, Iris, in a state of despair, had shut herself away on the first floor; Kenji was giving his assistant the cold shoulder and Victor was playing go-between. As for the guilty party, when questioned by Mademoiselle Tasha he had cynically summed up events in a mocking voice.

‘What do you expect, my dear? She’s a very pretty girl; what man wouldn’t want to have his way with her? A shame she showed up unexpectedly and Mimi laid into her!’

Blanche de Cambrésis pursed her lips and took her leave of Victor Legris after purchasing a novel she had delightedly unearthed by Arsène Houssaye. Joseph waited until she had left before emerging from his hiding place at the very moment that Kenji Mori descended the stairs. The two men pretended not to notice one another.

‘I have an appointment with Dr Reynaud,’ Kenji announced glumly.

He surreptitiously touched the bust of Molière on the mantelpiece above the hearth for luck, and fired a question at Victor.

‘Tell me honestly, Victor, do you think I’m shrinking?’

‘We’re all subject to the laws of gravity. What’s the matter with you?’

‘It’s my back.’ 

Oblivious to Joseph’s presence, they began discussing their health before moving on to ‘poor Iris’s’ state of mind. All that was missing was the tea and muffins!

‘Aren’t you lunching here?’ Victor asked. ‘Euphrosine has made celery and turnip croquettes.’

‘No thank you, really,’ said Kenji. ‘I’ll see you this evening – wish me luck.’

‘Women! They’re all alike,’ grumbled Joseph. ‘Look at Monsieur Mori, wasting away because that cancan dancer Fifi Bas-Rhin went off to St Petersburg with her Russky archduke!’

‘Don’t you believe it, Jojo. I suspect he prefers his meat to the vegetarian regime imposed by my sister and has gone off to Foyot’s to enjoy escalope Milanese or tournedos in pepper sauce.’

Victor’s envious expression betrayed a strong urge to do the same as his adoptive father. However, at the thought of Madame Pignot’s wrath, he abandoned the idea.

Frédéric Daglan walked with his hands in his pockets and a case slung over his shoulder along the fortifications separating Paris from its suburbs. The outlying boulevards bordered by huts and wooden shacks spread out across the parched grass at the foot of the fortifications.6 The sky above Saint-Ouen was black with the smoke billowing over from the factories. Frédéric Daglan walked through the tollgate at Clignancourt. He always began his rounds at Anchise Giacometti’s bistro. Anchise was a fellow countryman who had given him a helping hand the day he had arrived at Gare de Lyon, penniless, jobless and with no prospects. 

Frédéric was forty-three. He had warm memories of his father, Enrico Leopardi – a Garibaldian killed at the battle of Aspromonte in 1862. His widowed mother had emigrated to Marseilles, confident of a better future. She had sweated fourteen hours a day at an India rubber and gutta-percha factory on Avenue du Prado and had gone without in order to send Federico to school. The boy’s schoolteacher, Monsieur Daglan, was a good man, and had taught him reading, writing and arithmetic.

When his mother died of a heart attack, Federico Leopardi bought a train ticket to Paris, where he became Frédéric Daglan. He was just fifteen.

He was a rebel and a loner, full of care for the exploited and downtrodden, for the nobodies of the world. His job as a calligrapher served as a cover for his so-called criminal activities. He worked alone, undercover, occasionally soliciting the help of Theo, the nephew of Brigadier Clément, the park keeper. He never stole more than he needed to help his friends and to enjoy life and love. His philosophy was simple:

‘Faced with the sad fact that life is a vale of tears, I have chosen to prey on the rich rather than lose my self-respect begging at their table. Society is a jungle where the strong devour the weak and the moral of the story is that we all end up six feet under. That’s what I call liberty, equality and fraternity. I do nobody any harm, I simply cream off a tiny surplus. Besides, rich or poor, we can’t take it with us, not even what might fit through the eye of a needle.’

Only he was still very much alive, and in it up to his neck. The papers in the brown briefcase had left him in no doubt: he must go undercover and sort things out. 

Le Piccolo run by Anchise Giacometti stood on the edge of the working area. It resembled a village inn with its blue-painted bar, checked tablecloths and rustic sideboard. Anchise Giacometti, a silent patriarch with a flowing moustache, presided over the bar while his wife, a tiny Calabrian woman as dark as an olive, ran the kitchen. At lunchtime, the restaurant filled up with market gardeners and employees from the toll office.

Frédéric Daglan greeted Anchise and sat down in the corner at an unlaid table. The landlord brought him a stack of oblong cards together with the lunch menu. Frédéric opened his calligraphy case, took out his bottles of ink, his pens and nibs and went to work. He carefully wrote out the names of the dishes on each card, separating them with an arabesque. He used fine script for the desserts and bold characters for the beef and cabbage stew. Anchise poured him out a tumbler of wine and went back to polishing his glasses.

Frédéric gulped it down in one.

‘Anchise, do you know somewhere I can hide out?’

‘Mother Chickweed’s, Porte d’Allemagne.7 Just say Anchise sent you.’ 

CHAPTER TWO

Six o’clock in the morning, Wednesday 21 June

LÉOPOLD Grandjean lived with his wife and two sons on the fourth floor of a building in Rue des Boulets, near Place de la Nation. His rent was three hundred and ten francs a year, which included the door and window tax and the cost of the chimney sweep. In return, his three-room lodgings were equipped with running water and gas lighting. He had always loved reading. History, geography, science and literature – everything interested him. He could quote whole passages from Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Two lines from The Social Contract had influenced him in particular:

Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.

The fruits of the earth belong to everyone and the earth to no one.

On Sundays, he would take a stroll with his family along the fortifications and spend the day walking and setting the world to rights. Life was good.

His enamelling business was thriving. It was by no means a life of luxury and he occasionally had difficulty making ends meet, but everything about him suggested a relaxed and bohemian attitude towards life. Léopold had been an apprentice engraver then a porcelain painter. He adopted the attitudes of an artist and didn’t give a damn what his neighbours thought. His factory – a shed with a glass roof – stood at the end of Passage Gonnet in the shade of a lime tree whose dense foliage in summer was a haven for birds. Beyond it was a patch of wasteland where ragged children whooped and ran wild. The premises were divided into the factory proper and the sales room. Its shelves were filled with the most commonly enamelled objects of the day: sweet dishes, powder compacts, bowls, brooches, and pommels for canes and umbrellas. Once spring arrived, Léopold would get to his workshop at dawn in order to work on the more difficult orders. This time he had to produce a picture based on an icon; the task he’d set himself was complicated, but he felt confident that he would succeed. He began by making a quick, bold sketch.

‘Perfect. Now let’s fill in the detail.’

He added a finishing touch to his design then went over to a lathe, which had a copper plate covered in a first coat of clear enamel resting on it. He transferred the plate to a low table crowded with pots, paintbrushes, spatulas, and jars of gold and silver leaf. He cherished such moments of solitude as a respite from mass production and book-keeping; they were his secret moments of creativity. At thirty-nine, he still looked like a young man. Broad-shouldered and of medium build, he gave an impression of calm determination. Rarely did anything disturb his equanimity.

At this early hour, the workshop was bathed in an atmosphere of peace; even the chirping sparrows were scarcely audible. Léopold applied his colours, placing blobs of paste onto the lighter areas of the design then blending them gradually in the cloisonné sections. This preliminary task allowed his mind to wander freely.

If business went well, he’d buy a plot of land in Montreuil and grow peach trees; they’d give a good return. His two sons would take over – they were better off there than in a factory – and his wife would finally have the kitchen garden she’d always wanted.

A milk cart rattled down the quiet street, followed by the clatter of dustbins being hauled across the courtyard and wooden shutters banging. There was a sudden murmur, as though these noises had woken the sleeping neighbourhood. Léopold set down his brush. In half an hour his workers would arrive; it was time to snatch a cup of coffee. He whistled as he donned his jacket and battered hat, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

The Chez Kiki café stood on the corner of Rue Chevreul and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine surrounded by grocers, charcuteries and wine merchants. A steady flow of garrulous, sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed housewives streamed in and out of these shops lit by oil lamps. On his way to the bar, Léopold greeted Josette, the dark-skinned flower girl, back from Les Halles where she had stocked up her cart. He was feeling in his pockets for a match when a man sprang from nowhere and offered him a light. As Léopold thanked him, his smile suddenly faded. The man whispered something in his ear then stepped away, lowering his arm. Léopold fell backwards. He could see a flock of sparrows flying overhead, the façades of the buildings, the sky dappled with clouds … 

His vision became blurred and his stomach throbbed. The last thing he heard before sinking into oblivion was a song:

But the cherry season is short

When two go together to pick

Red pendants for their ears …

Cherries of love all dressed alike

Hanging like drops of blood beneath the leaves. 

Afternoon of the same day

‘Hell’s bells! What do you want: a juicy chop, or would you rather have thin broth?’ yelled a man dressed in breeches, stockings and a plumed hat.

The chambermaid felt her cheeks turn red. Tears blurred her vision. She began to curtsey and almost dropped her tray, causing a cardboard chicken and some wax pears to roll around precariously.

‘I-I don’t understand,’ she stammered.

‘And yet it is quite simple, my dear,’ the gentleman retorted. ‘If you want the juicy chop – in other words, success – you’ll have to serve Henry IV, alias muggins here, with a bit more panache. Wiggle the bits that matter, front and back! Then turn to the audience and say:

‘Although he’s good and kind and brave

Our sovereign’s nonetheless a knave.

‘I’m not asking for the moon! Stop snivelling … what’s your name again?’

‘Andréa.’

‘That’s a pretty name. Now, blow your nose, Andréa. We’ll win them over. Break for fifteen minutes.’

Edmond Leglantier, actor and director of Heart Pierced by an Arrow, a historical play in four acts, leapt down off the stage and went to join the actors playing Maria de Medici and Ravaillac sitting in the third row.

‘So, what do you think, children? Will the audience be impressed?’

‘The claque will applaud rapturously every time the actors come on, and I’m certain the play will be a success,’ Ravaillac assured him.

‘Let’s hope the gods can hear you …What rotten luck! How were we to know that two other plays about the same subject would be put on this summer? They’re already advertising The Flower Seller of The Innocents8 at the Châtelet and The Doll’s House9 at Porte-Saint-Martin! And you’re in the starring role!’

‘Me?’

‘Not you, you fool – Ravaillac! Including our one, that makes three. And there I was hoping to pull out all the stops for the reopening of Théâtre de l’Échiquier.’

Edmond Leglantier cast a dispirited eye over the Italianate auditorium whose refurbishment had plunged him up to his eyes in debt. He was staking everything on this production. If it was a flop, his creditors would be baying for his blood … Unless of course the swindle he was planning at the club paid off.

The stage manager stuck his head over the balcony. 

‘Pssst! Monsieur Leglantier! Philibert Dumont is looking for you everywhere. I told him you were at home.’

‘What a nuisance the man is! I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled. Thanks anyway.’

‘Who is Dumont?’ asked Maria de Medici.

‘The author of the play and a terrible bore. On that note, I’m going to have a quick smoke and then we’ll rehearse Act III. Sharpen your sword, Ravaillac!’

As soon as Henry IV had left the auditorium, Andréa asked her two fellow actors, ‘What’s got into him? I’m not used to being spoken to like that!’

‘Well, you’d better get used to it. Monsieur Leglantier’s very tense these days,’ said Ravaillac. ‘He’s sunk every last penny into this theatre. It’s his pride and joy.’

‘But the theatre hasn’t even opened yet. Where does he get his money?’

‘A rich uncle or some shady business deals? How should I know? Apparently he’s sold a painting.’

‘I know where he gets it,’ said the buxom Maria de Medici. ‘At the gaming table. He goes at it with the same passion as good King Henry when he was seducing young maidens. Edmond personifies the two masks of classical theatre, laughing one minute, crying the next. If he’s splitting his sides, it means he’s winning at baccarat; if he’s grimacing, he’s been cleaned out the night before. Fortunately he laughs more often than he cries!’

Ravaillac was surprised.

‘I don’t know where he finds the time. He spends hours at the theatre ordering the wardrobe mistresses about, spying on the stagehands, pestering the actors and explaining Hamlet, Le Cid or Andromaque to the extras who couldn’t give a fig!’

‘Oh, he finds the time all right, don’t you worry! He’s as strong as an ox, despite being fifty. It’s common knowledge that he has several mistresses. The official one is Adélaïde Paillet. She gets two nights a week and, when he’s fulfilled his obligations there, his passion for cards takes him to the club on the Boulevard. He goes on gambling, promising himself he’ll stop as soon as he makes a big win. He’s been on a winning streak the past few nights, which means his purse is full and we’ll get paid.’

‘Does he never stop?’ asked Andréa.

‘He goes to bed at dawn and gets up at noon.’

‘You seem to know an awful lot about him, Eugénie,’ remarked Ravaillac. ‘Anybody would think you were privy to the maestro’s secrets … Pillow talk, perhaps?’

‘Isn’t Maria de Medici Henry IV’s other half, clever-clogs?’

A voice boomed, ‘Company on stage!’ and they scurried back to the boards where King Henry sat on high in an open carriage while some stagehands struggled to put up a backdrop representing Rue de la Ferronnerie, with its letter-writers’ and washerwomen’s shops.

‘Hey! Wake up, Ravaillac! Where’s your wig? You’re supposed to be a redhead. What on earth possessed me to hire such a ham! For heaven’s sake, you’re meant to cut my throat, not sit around jabbering with these ladies!’

The manager’s office was on the second floor, above the foyer. As soon as the rehearsal had finished, Edmond Leglantier hurried upstairs to change. He peeled off his false beard, smothered his face in cold cream, cleaned off the greasepaint and coloured his salt-and-pepper moustache with some make-up filched from Eugénie. He crooned as he buttoned his shirt:

‘No more gaming at the table

Ding dong! The horse is in the stable.

A fine, handsome role awaits me

A Don Diego or an Othello!

‘I can smell it. That fickle mistress fame will be mine! I’ll spare no expense, gilt chairs and electric lighting in the auditorium if you please! Who would dare question my luck? I shan’t be playing baccarat tonight, I’ll be playing the players, and it will be the performance of a lifetime!’

He took a bundle of shares from a drawer, and studied one of them. An elegantly crossed pipe and cigar holder framed in wreaths of smoke a text, which he read out pompously:

‘Public Company AMBREX Statutes registered with Maître Piard, Notary of Paris, 14 February 1893 ISSUED CAPITAL 1,000,000 francs Divided into 2,000 shares of 500 francs each HEAD OFFICE: PARIS The holder is beneficiary of the share Paris, 30 April 1893 Director                Director 

‘Perfect,’ he concluded, with a smile. ‘The artist has surpassed himself.’

He kissed the shares in the manner of a bashful lover.

‘You are ravishing, my beauties, decked out in all your finery. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar! Nothing reassures an investor more than seeing with his own eyes, in finely engraved copperplate, the gold mine that promises to make his nest egg grow. The gold mine in this case being these smoking accessories, which look every bit as authentic as a picture in a magazine – and people will believe anything they see in print.’

He counted out twenty-five share certificates, stored the remainder in a safe from which he took an equal number of cigar holders, and placed the whole lot in a briefcase. Then, standing before a cheval glass, he knotted his tie and declaimed in a quavering voice worthy of a member of the Comédie-Française, ‘Never will a better use be found for paper than converting it into hard cash or potential dividends from shares in variform enterprises.’