good-natured, though harassed, countenance beneath an untidy powdered wig.
“This is all so terribly sudden,” he said, hastily thrusting away a handkerchief. “To be occupying myself with offers for her hand one day, and then to order her coffin the next; but this … she was in excellent health, I never suspected …”
He absently scratched his head, pushing his wig askew, and rubbed his eyes. An amiable untidiness seemed to be the essence of Montereau’s temperament, Aristide thought. Though his black silk frock coat was finely tailored, its cut was some years out of fashion and it hung on his sturdy shoulders as if he had been wearing a peasant’s smock.
Aristide seated himself on the nearest chair. Brasseur gingerly lowered his large frame onto a graceful Louis XV sofa and perched on the edge. Across the ceiling above them, simpering cherubs surrounded a pair of nude pagan gods who reclined among rosy clouds. Brasseur glanced upward, blushed, and tried to look as if he saw such suggestive opulence every day.
“They told me my daughter had been murdered,” Montereau said. “Who—who could have done such a thing?”
“We hope to find that out, Citizen Montereau,” Brasseur told him, “but it looks as if she was just the victim of bad luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time. When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“ Décadi, in the morning. The day she disappeared. We—we breakfasted together as we usually did. Then I went to the Tuileries to meet—pardon me, the National Palace—to meet some friends; I joined them for dinner at Méot’s, and didn’t return home until nearly eleven o’clock that evening.”
Aristide nodded. Méot was a fashionable and expensive restaurateur near the Palais-Égalité and Montereau’s presence there could be easily verified.
“Célie wasn’t here when I returned. Her maid told me she had gone out on an errand.”
“What sort of errand?” said Aristide.
“I don’t know. Pierrette didn’t know. Célie left at about five o’clock, after she’d dined, and said she would be gone only an hour or two. She said she was only going on an errand …”
“Did your daughter often go out alone?” Brasseur inquired.
“Usually she took Pierrette with her—her maid—but now and then she insisted she could go alone. She could—she could take care of herself, she claimed, and after all she was twenty-two. She was so delicate and gentle, but though she didn’t look it she had a mind of her own.” A maid arrived with the coffee tray and Aristide accepted a cup, balancing it in his hands as Montereau continued. “There was no danger in going out alone, she said, not in going abroad in a respectable neighborhood in full daylight.”
The coffee was strong and bitter. Out of the corner of his eye Aristide saw Brasseur, who preferred his coffee well sugared, grimacing at the peculiar tastes of the well-to-do.
“Citizen, they told us you identified the body of Louis Saint-Ange.”
“He is—was—a distant cousin of my first wife’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I recognized him. Why was my daughter’s body found in his lodgings? What has he to do with this? We’ve not seen him for years … since ’eighty-nine. He emigrated to Saint-Domingue. Of course, we were not close; his reputation was a trifle unsavory.”
“Well,” Brasseur said, “it seems that Saint-Ange might have had some kind of hold over your daughter.”
“Hold?”
“He might have possessed some secret of hers that she wouldn’t have wanted spread about. He seems to have made a living from extortion.”
“Extortion?” Montereau echoed him. “That scarcely surprises me, from what I remember of him, but what possible hold could he have had over Célie?”
“No doubt it was something quite trivial,” Aristide said. “Can you think of any other reason why Citizeness Montereau should have been calling upon Saint-Ange?”
Montereau slowly shook his head. “None. She
“This is all so terribly sudden,” he said, hastily thrusting away a handkerchief. “To be occupying myself with offers for her hand one day, and then to order her coffin the next; but this … she was in excellent health, I never suspected …”
He absently scratched his head, pushing his wig askew, and rubbed his eyes. An amiable untidiness seemed to be the essence of Montereau’s temperament, Aristide thought. Though his black silk frock coat was finely tailored, its cut was some years out of fashion and it hung on his sturdy shoulders as if he had been wearing a peasant’s smock.
Aristide seated himself on the nearest chair. Brasseur gingerly lowered his large frame onto a graceful Louis XV sofa and perched on the edge. Across the ceiling above them, simpering cherubs surrounded a pair of nude pagan gods who reclined among rosy clouds. Brasseur glanced upward, blushed, and tried to look as if he saw such suggestive opulence every day.
“They told me my daughter had been murdered,” Montereau said. “Who—who could have done such a thing?”
“We hope to find that out, Citizen Montereau,” Brasseur told him, “but it looks as if she was just the victim of bad luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time. When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“ Décadi, in the morning. The day she disappeared. We—we breakfasted together as we usually did. Then I went to the Tuileries to meet—pardon me, the National Palace—to meet some friends; I joined them for dinner at Méot’s, and didn’t return home until nearly eleven o’clock that evening.”
Aristide nodded. Méot was a fashionable and expensive restaurateur near the Palais-Égalité and Montereau’s presence there could be easily verified.
“Célie wasn’t here when I returned. Her maid told me she had gone out on an errand.”
“What sort of errand?” said Aristide.
“I don’t know. Pierrette didn’t know. Célie left at about five o’clock, after she’d dined, and said she would be gone only an hour or two. She said she was only going on an errand …”
“Did your daughter often go out alone?” Brasseur inquired.
“Usually she took Pierrette with her—her maid—but now and then she insisted she could go alone. She could—she could take care of herself, she claimed, and after all she was twenty-two. She was so delicate and gentle, but though she didn’t look it she had a mind of her own.” A maid arrived with the coffee tray and Aristide accepted a cup, balancing it in his hands as Montereau continued. “There was no danger in going out alone, she said, not in going abroad in a respectable neighborhood in full daylight.”
The coffee was strong and bitter. Out of the corner of his eye Aristide saw Brasseur, who preferred his coffee well sugared, grimacing at the peculiar tastes of the well-to-do.
“Citizen, they told us you identified the body of Louis Saint-Ange.”
“He is—was—a distant cousin of my first wife’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I recognized him. Why was my daughter’s body found in his lodgings? What has he to do with this? We’ve not seen him for years … since ’eighty-nine. He emigrated to Saint-Domingue. Of course, we were not close; his reputation was a trifle unsavory.”
“Well,” Brasseur said, “it seems that Saint-Ange might have had some kind of hold over your daughter.”
“Hold?”
“He might have possessed some secret of hers that she wouldn’t have wanted spread about. He seems to have made a living from extortion.”
“Extortion?” Montereau echoed him. “That scarcely surprises me, from what I remember of him, but what possible hold could he have had over Célie?”
“No doubt it was something quite trivial,” Aristide said. “Can you think of any other reason why Citizeness Montereau should have been calling upon Saint-Ange?”
Montereau slowly shook his head. “None. She
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