Oh no, I’m not working…. I do my tapestry and play cards….
—COLETTE, IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND
Colette set aside the Parker pen she’d bought twelve years and a lifetime ago when she could still walk and even dance a few slow steps. Before she reconstructed her story, every event that preceded the murder must be replayed in her mind, starting with that first cold rain.
Paris rain sent signals. Sometimes it sounded like the radio hissing in code, or scratching fingers, or furtive pebbles thrown against a window. That day it had whispered like a ghost with a secret. Ignoring the pain, she’d dragged herself across the divan and opened the glass doors to the balustrade. From the gardens rose a mixed essence of iron and hyacinth, flor-metallica, the kernel of spring. She could almost taste it. Something stirred along her knotted spine, something light and quick.
Far below, umbrellas were popping open all over the Palais Royal. There was the countess Liane unfurling her chartreuse lampshade, fringed no less. Two steps behind, Liane’s dull young husband scuttled after her Pekingese. Hah, the purse, the prince, and the pooch. But Colette’s dry little smile faded when she spotted Jules Roland zagging toward the arcade. A parcel teetered on his palm. Oh, Lord, he’s bringing me lunch. “Quick, Pauline! Roland is coming!”
Her housekeeper appeared in the doorway, thick gray hair slipping from its pins, one cheek slightly puffed, as if a toothache had blossomed. In her hand was the ice pack Colette had insisted she use to keep the swelling down.
The doorbell rang.
“Fast, isn’t he, for an overblown chef?” Colette’s laugh was brightly malicious. “Tell him I’m away, on the high seas with Maurice.”
“But, Madame, you agreed to see him. He telephoned yesterday from the Petit Corsair.”
“Always his restaurant. I may be forgetful, but there’s a sameness about his talk. He condemns his rivals. He denounces the black market. Two notes, both flat.” She reached for her tapestry. “And his madeleines! I’d rather dunk shoes in my coffee. Accept his gift if it looks good, then show him the back of your hand.”
“Eat my supper, sing my song.” Pauline pressed the ice pack to her cheek. “The concierge adores him.”
“Because he feeds her, too.”
The bell rang more sharply this time.
“Madame!”
“All right, bring him in, the fat old bore.” Her laughter erupted again, coarse as a crow’s. Colette had always admired those intelligent birds. “And I’m sure he says the same about me.”
“No one could call you a bore, Madame.”
“Ortolans! In April! You are too kind.”
“No, no. It is you who are kind.” Still in his damp coat, Roland arranged five grilled songbirds on the tray Pauline had set out.
“Cover them. I won’t lunch for an hour yet.” Roland could have his fifteen minutes, but she was damned if she would eat with him. He reeked of mothballs. And that moustache! It made him look like a pimp. She caught his irritated glance. A peevish pimp, with razor scrapes on his neck.
Soundlessly he placed a dome over the birds, his pulpy fingers leaving smears on the silver. Colette tried to imagine those hands caressing her, and from the depths of her soul she, who had savored all that the body offers, shuddered.
“The only ortolans in Paris,” Roland was saying. “Yesterday I bought twenty off a hunter at an outrageous price.” But I bring the best to you, said the silky smile. “I spend Sundays in the country—Barimonde.”
Was that appalling grin an allusion to the well-known fact that she hailed from Saint-Sauveur, a stone’s throw from Barimonde? Were they, God help her, compatriots? From her raft, as she called the divan, she pulled the table closer and picked up her wine. A speck of politeness forced her to offer Roland a glass, too.
He settled into a chair and unbuttoned the coat she had no intention of proposing he remove. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, but I have a favor to ask.” Implicit were the words: And I have been sending you truffles and foie gras and raspberries all through the war and these two years after.
Yes, she thought, Pauline is right. I have indeed eaten Roland’s supper. “If I can help you, I will.”
“Oh, Madame, you’ll be the making of me!” His hands clutched each other—red kitchen scars, larval whiteness. “Raymond Oliver will twist in the wind.”
“If you expect me to injure the greatest chef—”
“I express myself badly. Certainly Oliver is a genius. But the Palais Royal can support two chefs of genius.”
“What do you want from me, Monsieur Roland?”
“Come to my wedding on Saturday.”
Astonishment froze her tongue. Who would marry that moustache? Whoever the woman, Colette knew she herself would be the prize, flaunted like spoils of war. Her name would be yoked to Roland and his restaurant, and Colette well understood the power of her name. The princes of Monaco worshipped her brilliance. Sartre sat at her feet. The press would erupt. Crowds would rush to dine at Petit Corsair. Raymond Oliver would never forgive her.
A stark image cut through her thoughts: her wheelchair. “I leave my apartment only for literary occasions. Ask something else.”
There was no disappointment in Roland’s face. The pimp had anticipated her refusal. “Then may I name my new dessert after you? And, as I am a photographer, may I take a picture of you?”
“Photography, too? Bravo!”
He coughed delicately. “Perhaps eating it?”
His sly eagerness offended her more than his enterprise. Still, one session and it would be over. No public appearance. No wheelchair. And afterward, no more gifts. She would insist on Cartier-Bresson. An amateur’s snapshot must not distort the careful image she presented to the world: wisdom shining from ancient eyes that said, Even wisdom isn’t the end of me.
“Your dessert must have marzipan and meringue,” she improvised. “And cherries.”
“Certainly.” His spongy fingers smoothed that despicable moustache. “One more thing—my bride. May I bring her to meet you? She would be gratified that a woman of such grandeur is my friend.”
The only answer to this was a rude noise. Colette chose silence.
“Gisele is young,” Roland went on in a gluey voice.
“How young?”
“She’ll be eighteen in October.”
“Seventeen, then.”
“But she’s a real woman, tall, intelligent. She has read all your books.”
“All?”
He frowned as if so many questions threatened him.
“How do you know this clever young woman?”
“Her parents are suppliers of mine. The war was hard on them, both sons lost, barns destroyed. Recently I loaned them enough to keep their farms going—no interest until they’re back on their feet. They agree I have much to offer their little Gisele.”
“And little Gisele? How does she feel about marrying her grandfather?”
“Madame! I am only forty-seven! And it’s all the same to Gisele, she said so herself.”
“Well, then. By all means, bring me your bride.”
A satisfied Roland buttoned his coat. As soon as the door hit his heels, Colette lifted the dome and, with a few passes of her knife and fork and her remaining teeth, crunched down the ortolans. Not superb, but quite good, really. And for once Roland hadn’t bored her. After coffee, she settled back with her papers and pen. Tapestry could wait until tomorrow or, if she captured her story, the day after.
Monday ended as it began, on her raft in the rain, her blue lamp burning a hole in the dark. Tuesday washed into Wednesday. The sun came out. All week Colette’s fingers roamed restlessly between her needle and her pen. On Friday Maurice’s telegram arrived at breakfast, which Pauline served with a scarf tied around her swollen face.
“He’ll be home in seven weeks.” Colette passed her the telegram, but Pauline was in too much pain to read it. “And if you don’t get to the dentist I’ll pull that tooth myself.” She clacked the sugar tongs at Pauline.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Idiot! Today the abscess bursts and tomorrow you’re dead of blood poisoning.” Colette snatched up the telephone and arranged for Dr. Delibert to see Pauline at eleven.
“But your lunch—”
“Ask Madame Boyer to bring me some little thing. She can take care of dinner, too. By the time Delibert gets through with you, you’ll need a month in the country.”
“Oh, please stop!”
“Just teasing, my dear. Delibert is an artist.”
Madame Boyer poked her frizzy orange head around the door. “I’ve brought you an omelet and a few early radishes.” Although the concierge insisted she couldn’t linger, she accepted a glass of wine.
Colette ate quickly, running bread around her plate to capture whatever her fork had missed. “Wonderful! You’re a subtler cook than most professionals—Roland, for example.” Her praise was meant to inspire. She didn’t want another omelet for supper.
“Roland is an assassin.”
“True, his coulibiac smacks of murder.” Colette recalled Roland’s attempt, as soggy as a wet sock. “But when he cooks simply—baked foie gras, grilled ortolans—the goodness comes through. Roland knows what’s good, give him that. When he finds it he twitches like a divining rod. That child bride had better—”
Madame Boyer stood up. “I can’t stay.”
“Finish your wine. Nobody expects you to be on duty every minute.”
“Nobody expects anything of me.” She dropped back into the chair, her eyes too bright for that little bit of wine she’d dipped her beak in.
“A man?”
Boyer nodded.
“Not…”
“Roland. Yes. We were to be married when I’d saved enough to invest in his restaurant. He’s expanding. I was to take charge of his staff.” She began to moan. “And now he’s thrown me over for a—a pissant!”
“Pull yourself together! You’re not the first woman tossed aside by a man. Have you given him money?”
The orange head jerked up. “Are you mad?”
“It’s purely an affair of the heart?”
This triggered an explosion of sobs, so unbecoming in a woman Boyer’s age, at least forty, and a widow to boot. Colette herself had never shed a public tear. Not when Willy left. Not when he sold her rights to the Claudines. For a sou. Not when her mother died. She topped up Boyer’s glass. There was no wine for omelets or broken dreams. This soft Vouvray would have to do. “Tell me about it,” she said, indulging her avidity, her fever to know, which still raged after seventy-four years of probing the universe. Perhaps Boyer had something new to add to the annals of inconstant love.
It took half an hour, but in the end, out came the same old story: Who gives most is drained and abandoned. Colette stifled her yawn. The ardent concierge would survive, even thrive; she was already planning her own bistro on the cheaper side of the Palais.
By Sunday afternoon Pauline had recovered enough to serve coffee and those incomparable napoleons when the countess dropped by with her Pekingese. At sixty-five, her years eased by couture, spas, balms, Liane was the youngest and richest of Colette’s friends from her music hall days.
“Where’s Henri?” Colette inquired.
“Communing with his horse. Day and night he rides in the Bois. Alone. My spine can’t take it anymore.” Boredom filled every powdered line in Liane’s face. Only the jewels on her fingers winked with life.
“Spend more time on your back,” Colette advised. “In the old days how you loved the jab of a man’s spur.”
“Pain, joy. Who can tell them apart? Right, Topaz?” The countess leaned toward the dog at her feet and stroked his throat until his liquid eyes drooped.
If age sat lightly on Liane, Colette’s years were impossible to hide. Passive resistance was all she could muster: scarves, lipstick, the warmth of her intelligent eyes. Not that time had diminished her essence. Her grip was strong, her hair as lively as bedsprings. And, as she had informed Marcel Proust fifty years ago, her soul was stuffed with red beans and bacon rind.
“Now, this is joy.” Liane dug into the golden crust. “Roland is a genius.”
“Wrong.” Colette loved to contradict countesses. “Raymond Oliver made the napoleons.” As any gastronome could tell. But Liane’s forte was jewelry. In food as in men she had no taste at all.
“Those two. Always sending me treats.” Pastry cream clung to Liane’s lips. “Though I prefer Roland’s. He’s better looking than Oliver.”
“With that moustache? Ugh. He got married yesterday, poor girl.”
“Married? The rascal never said a word!” Liane waved a hand, airy as a silk scarf, and her sleeve fell back, exposing a gold bracelet six inches wide and studded with rubies.
Colette couldn’t tear her eyes away. “What a glorious cuff! It has a sado-maso quality I adore. Let me try it on.”
Liane’s arm stayed just out of Colette’s reach. “It brings bad luck. It belonged to a Gypsy, who sold it to a princess, who sold it to me. Only the owner can wear it.”
“That magnificent clasp! A fish?”
“Mermaid, and put down your hand. Even a touch brings grief. Speaking of which”—Liane covered her arm—“how long will your dear husband be away?”
“Too long.” Colette explained that Maurice was promoting her books in the world’s richest land, “now that Europe has again reduced itself to ashes.”
“My darling Colette”—Liane helped herself to more coffee—“nobody reads in America.”
“Oh, but there are so many of them, even nobody is ten thousand.”
Nights, Colette worked on her story, writing and rewriting, never closing on the end. Like her long-ago cats, she slept in snatches. Every morning from her window she watched the day break, earlier and earlier as the equinox drew near. She could set her clock by who was moving below: the dairyman at five-thirty, followed twenty minutes later by Madame Boyer with her market basket. At an unfashionable seven, Liane’s Henri left for the Bois in his riding clothes. At eight, around the time the concierge staggered home under the weight of those endless cabbages, Colette had her first cup of coffee and a slice of bread. Page by page, the days passed. Outside, the gardens grew tender and hazy, with shoots of penstemon rising like dark green exclamation points at the ends of pastel sentences.
Three weeks after his ortolan visit, Roland introduced the bride to the monument. “My wife is a compatriot of yours, Madame.”
Gisele was taller than her husband and self-conscious in her blue and white Sunday best. A rash on her chin marred her prettiness, but cornflower eyes lay shyly in her oval face, and when she said, “Proud to meet you, I’m sure,” her rolling rs were pure Burgundy.
Colette used her tenderest voice. “What village, my dear?”
“Barimonde.” In Gisele’s mouth, the word sounded as final as death.
“Ah, yes. Me, I left Saint-Sauveur half a century ago. For this!” Colette swept an arm toward the glass doors. “Tell me, Gisele, does Paris please you?”
Shrug.
“The gardens?”
“Very small.”
“You like animals?” Not many farm girls did.
Shrug.
“But you’ve read my Barks and Purrs?”
“It was required at school.”
At her nape, held there by tiny combs, Gisele wore a twisted braid thick enough to uncoil to her heels, exactly like Colette’s when she first came to Paris, a barely fledged country bride on the arm of potbellied, middle-aged Willy.
It was the braid that decided her. She would win over this raw young compatriot, who couldn’t possibly love her husband. Perhaps she could smooth the girl’s way, help her discover that love wasn’t everything, or even necessary. Although at twenty, hadn’t she been deeply in love with Willy? Love was important starting out. Love launched one. Well, she would do what she could.
“Never mind tea,” she said to Pauline, who had rattled in with a tray. “We want chocolates and champagne. Use the etched glasses.”
Vintage Clicquot and sweets lightened Roland at least. He devoured nougatines and proposed endless toasts: to his magnificent friend, to his obedient bride, to his new dessert, to his restaurant. By the time he reached la France! his cheeks had pinked up. A jolly pimp today.
They discussed Cerises Colette, the fabled dessert, and Colette laid down conditions—a new dress for herself, a travel allowance for Cartier-Bresson—and while they settled the details, Gisele munched handfuls of hazelnut brittle and guzzled champagne. Later Colette played piano, music hall tunes easy on her fingers. To her surprise, the country bride played, too, a few pieces by Schumann.
When long shadows filled the gardens and the fountain lights flickered on, Pauline brought the coats.
“Will you visit me again?” Colette asked.
Roland beamed. “With pleasure.”
“Not you. Your wife, when you’re busy in your restaurant. She’ll be lonely then.”
“I’m supposed to help in the kitchen,” Gisele said.
Colette turned a hard eye on Roland, who was sliding Gisele’s coat over her shoulders. “Monsieur Roland! Your wife is not a galley slave. Her music needs work. And books! This is Paris. She must keep up. I myself will be happy to read with her of an afternoon.”
Gisele frowned. “I don’t want—”
Roland squeezed her elbow so tightly she gasped. The scars on his hand burned red at the bone. “My wife will be pleased to visit whenever you call.”
Twice that week Colette and Gisele met over coffee and chocolates. Gisele stuffed herself but refused to play the piano again because “it makes me sad.”
When Colette talked about Willy or her famous friends, Gisele listened with unfeigned interest, but if books were brought out, or even the newspaper, she stared at the windows. “I have never enjoyed reading,” she said blithely to the only woman ever elected to the Academy Goncourt.
“You must read more. Reading leads to reading. There’s a novel you’d enjoy—The Irish Harp by Germaine Beaumont. It’s a grand Gothic romance of the sort I would write if only I could. On the second shelf.”
Gisele slouched over and studied the rows of lettered spines. There was a wary look in her peasant’s eye, but also a desire to please. “If I must read,” she sighed, “I prefer this.” She took down a copy of The Innocent Libertine. “At least you wrote it.”
“In spite of the title, my novel may bore you,” Colette warned. “Now let’s have a nice game of piquet.”
Why am I wasting my time with this illiterate girl? Colette asked herself at the end of the week. There were Goncourt Prize submissions to plow through, roses to stitch. Her new story was languishing. She wondered if her unconscious mind was preparing a coda to Gigi—the after-the-happily-ever-after—Gisele her model.
She dismissed the notion. It was hardly unconscious if she could describe it. More likely, she was playing at mother, since her own daughter rarely came to call. Or pretending the indifferent Gisele was the ghost of her own young self.
Next visit, perhaps sensing Colette’s withdrawal, Gisele confided her longing to escape the apartment over the restaurant. “I’m dying. He won’t let me out, except to visit you.”
Truly, Gisele’s complexion had worsened, pale as winter endive. She was standing with her back to the balustrade, cocooned in a sweater. “He thinks he owns me.”
“My first husband owned me, in a way,” Colette confessed. “I was so young and in love I didn’t mind. Until I grew up and discovered the difference between being owned and being possessed.”
“There is no difference. And I hate it.” Gisele’s face turned cold and blank. Colette had once seen a farmer with that face, cramming corn down the throat of a goose.
From her raft, she formed a sudden impression that a spider had crept onto Gisele’s wrist. “What is that?” She grabbed Gisele’s arm and pushed up her sleeve. Blue-black contusions stained the white skin. “He beats you?”
“When he’s angry he pinches my arms and neck.”
Two things were clear to Colette, who understood danger: Pinches lead to slaps, and this country girl was pining. She sent Gisele home with a pocketful of chocolates, then telephoned Roland.
“Your wife has hurt herself.” She cut off his surprised effusions. “Poor little thing insisted she fell, but there are bruises in the oddest places; do you follow me, Monsieur Roland?”
He did.
“Lack of fresh air makes her dizzy. You must let her out for long walks in the Bois every day.” When he hesitated, she added, “Is it next Wednesday that Cartier-Bresson is supposed to photograph the cherries and me?”
Roland needed no more than this quiet reminder of her power to give, and more to the point, to take away.
That night when sleep wouldn’t come Colette revisited her childhood in the fields and forests of Saint-Sauveur, where she and her brothers had wandered from dawn until dusk, in every season. How necessary it was for her mother’s savage children to roam. Even now, flooded by pain she never acknowledged, Colette could smell the almond husks, taste the ice and dust of Lancet’s brook, feel the garter snake, electric in her hand.
By her third day of freedom, Gisele’s complexion was verging on roses. “The Bois is full of lakes,” she chirped to Colette. “The Count de Rossat showed me.”
“You know Henri?” From her window this morning, Colette had watched Gisele cross the gardens at the same time as Liane’s husband. A coincidence, she’d thought.
“He and the countess often have supper at the Petit Corsair. The countess is very kind, always asking for me.” Gisele plopped down across from Colette. “Is Henri really a count?”
“As a matter of fact, he is. He’s got the title, she’s got the money. The perfect marriage. They’re wild about each other, so Liane says.” Colette smirked, but Gisele didn’t notice.
“Piquet?” Gisele tore open a new pack of cards and set to work.
“You shuffle like a sharper,” Colette said, watching cards and fingers fly. “I mean that as a compliment.”
“I’ve begun The Innocent Libertine.”
“Is that so?” Colette lifted an eyebrow.
Gisele blushed.
A single piercing shriek interrupted Wednesday’s first cup of coffee. From outside? Colette couldn’t tell, and Pauline had gone to the apothecary. Somewhere below, a door slammed, followed by a brief silence, then more shrieks. Curiosity finally drove Colette to hobble on her canes to the balustrade, where she watched a kitchen boy from Petit Corsair gallop across the gardens and disappear into her building. Excited voices followed, and seconds later Pauline burst into the room, accompanied by a breathless Madame Boyer.
“Oh, God, oh, God.” A feathered go-to-market hat fluttered against the concierge’s orange curls. “I found him! Me! Why me?”
“Found who?”
“Cherries all over everywhere!”
“Will someone kindly tell me what’s going on?”
“Roland is dead!”
“Have you called the police?”
Curls and feathers nodded.
“Where—”
“Lying in the alcove,” Pauline said. “Stabbed through the heart.”
“With his own fruit knife.” Madame Boyer groaned. “I recognized the handle.” Her eyes darted from Colette to Pauline. “The kitchen boy told me everything started at two this morning when Pauline rang up the Petit Cor—”
“I did no such thing!”
“Well, he thought it was you. Both boys sleep near the pantry, but nothing wakes the little one.” A tear dribbled down Boyer’s nose. Her story came in garbled bits that Colette reassembled in her orderly mind:
The woman who called herself Pauline had an urgent message about the photo session. Roland must arrive at seven, not nine. He must bring two Cerises Colette and ingredients for a third.
“Ah, the cherries,” Colette said.
“The foyer is littered with them!” Madame Boyer rushed on. “And Roland was supposed to come alone because Madame hates a crowd in the kitchen.”
“That’s absurd.” Colette threw out her hands. “I love a crowd.”
“I’m only repeating what Pauline—”
“Are you deaf? It wasn’t me called the kitchen boy.”
“If people are going to keep butting—”
“Go on. We won’t say another word.”
“Yes, well, the woman who called herself Pauline said she knew it was short notice and extra work, but there’d be a publicity bonus. Madame herself wanted to make the dessert. She intended to whip the meringue, and Cartier-Bresson would photograph this historic event.”
“Whip meringue? With my arms?” The blue lamp swayed over Colette’s head, and she pushed it aside. “That my name should be dragged into this.”
“What about me!” Anger overcame the fear in Pauline’s eyes. “How could those idiots believe such monstrous lies?”
“Because the monstrous is so often true. Look at Europe.” Colette folded a pillow under her neck. “Or me.”
From far off came the whine of police sirens.
“They’ll be here any second. Hurry and finish your story.”
“I’m talking as fast as I can!” With rough fingers, Madame Boyer tweaked her feathers. “So Roland gets out of bed in the middle of the night and labors until dawn. Anything to promote himself.” She tossed her head like an angry rooster. “Just before seven he loads his trolley and walks out to his doom. When I found him I rang his establishment, even before I called the police. Not that his bumpkin bride was at home. Out galavanting like the tart that she is.”
A faint knock interrupted her denunciation of Gisele, and the kitchen boy sidled into the room. “P-pardon,” he stammered. “The p-police want Madame Boyer.”
As he followed the concierge out, Colette noticed bruises like spiders on the back of his neck.
Cartier-Bresson came and went, sorry to lose his session with Colette but thrilled to photograph a crime scene. At ten o’clock, Inspector Ducasse mounted the stairs. A thin man with small eyes, he displayed not a shred of deference in the presence of monuments. There was something disagreeable, even English, about him, Colette thought—maybe the baggy tweeds or the thick-soled, too-serviceable shoes.
While Colette gave her account of Roland, Ducasse frowned at her canes as if he inferred secret stilettos from the curved handles. She used one to hook her workbasket. “Fishing from my raft, Inspector.”
He didn’t crack a smile.
She found a skein of madder rose and held it to the light. “I often sit by my window. Not much activity this morning. The dairyman. Our concierge off to market. At no time did I see Jules Roland. He must have pushed his trolley beneath the arcade.”
She didn’t mention that Gisele had left for her walk later than usual. And that Henri hadn’t gone for his ride. Let the sour inspector find things out for himself.
Without warning, Ducasse whipped a small cloth out of his pocket. Inside the folds lay a carved ivory comb. “Do you recognize this?”
Colette shook her head. “Should I?”
“It was under Roland’s body. Doesn’t your protégée wear trinkets like this?”
“Gisele? You’ll have to ask her what she puts in her hair.”
Next, Ducasse struck at Pauline. “You were friendly with Monsieur Jules Roland before his marriage?”
“Certainly. When he came to see Madame I guarded the silver.”
Don’t be insolent, Colette tried to warn with her eyes.
“You never met privately with him? On your day off? In the evening?”
“Never.”
“Was two in the morning your usual time to call him?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. I have never in my life telephoned Jules Roland.”
“The kitchen boy swears it was you.”
“Slander is a crime in France!”
“So is murder.”
With the ferrule of her cane Colette tapped Ducasse’s knee. “The boy is mistaken. Pauline was with me. We played cards from midnight until dawn. I’m an insomniac and sometimes she humors me.” Colette’s Burgundian accent was suddenly as thick as clotted cream. “My Pauline didn’t budge from this room.”
“Coming from you, I must accept that, Madame. Who besides your immediate household knew about the photography session?”
“The entire Palais Royal, I imagine.”
“I imagine so, too.” Ducasse sighed.
After he left, Pauline touched Colette’s sleeve. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, my dear.”
Over the next days, Colette watched Ducasse and his men invade the Palais Royal, where each building had its concierge and its theories. Shop owners, residents, street urchins—all passed through the inquisitors’ wringer. Pauline hobnobbed everywhere and carried every tale back to Colette.
Other suspects besides Pauline had serviceable alibis:
Raymond Oliver had spent Wednesday in bed with influenza.
Madame Boyer had been haggling over onions in front of all the world.
The kitchen boys, both dotted with Roland’s pinch marks, vouched for each other.
Only Gisele’s hours roaming the Bois couldn’t be verified. On Sunday morning, the police took her away, for questioning, they said. They warned the count not to leave Paris, and that afternoon over coffee Liane fretted out loud to Colette:
“Henri was at his mother’s country estate from Tuesday night through Wednesday afternoon. Wasn’t he, Topaz?” Liane had left her dog in the arcade and kept stumbling over his absence, now and then leaning down to stroke an empty place near her foot. “But the young widow, now, that one has gained a few francs. Her parents have, too. Did you know Roland held a mortgage on their farms? One hundred hectares of pure gold—truffle oaks, a trout stream, the vineyard.”
“Everyone knows he made them an interest-free loan,” Colette said. “He loved to lower his eyes and mention his generosity.”
“Generosity, my foot! I’m sure he kept a sharp eye on their land. Ready to pounce at the least provocation.”
“My dear countess, are you suggesting Roland would have destroyed the parents in order to punish the child?” She watched Liane closely. “For example, are Gisele and Henri having a fling?”
“Heavens, no. Not that I would mind. When Henri and I tied the knot we put flings in the contract.” Liane’s laugh came from deep in her chest, and Colette knew her old colleague was telling the truth, about her indifference, at least.
“Gisele probably moons over my handsome Henri.” Liane widened her eyes, which nevertheless failed to sparkle. “He tells me they often meet after his ride and sit chastely by the lake. He reads to her, one of your books, I believe. That’s the beginning and end of their fling. If Gisele murdered her husband, I can assure you my Henri wasn’t involved. He’s much too lazy for murder.”
“Gisele is certainly capable of murder,” Colette said. “But we Burgundians kill strictly from passion. We never premeditate.”
“Well, there are plenty of other suspects.” Liane inclined her supple body toward the raft. “They say your Pauline was madly in love with Roland.”
True to herself, Colette hid the anger Liane had squeezed from her tired heart. “Oh, Roland chased after her for a few weeks before the war. But Pauline is a woman of taste. She found him even less appetizing than his tripe lyonnaise.”
On cue, Pauline came in from reconnoitering the neighborhood. “Countess,” she said. “What’s wrong with Topaz? He refuses to set one paw inside the lobby.”
“I know. I think he’s afraid.” Liane tapped her nose, and Colette noticed the Gypsy bracelet outlined under her sleeve, rubies puckering the silk. “My poor little puppy must smell Roland’s blood.”
“But the floor has been scrubbed with carbolic.”
“When it comes to scent, dogs have perfect pitch. Think of truffles.”
Truffles, Colette mused after Liane had gone. The oak tree’s dirty and delicious little secret. “Pauline, I have an idea.” She pushed the telephone toward her housekeeper. “Invite the inspector to come here. Now, if he can.”
Ducasse was too busy. “If you have new information,” he said over the telephone, “it is your duty to tell me at once.”
Colette imagined his office—the cast-iron stove, the battered desk, a smell of cheese. Was Gisele somewhere nearby, tired and frightened in her Sunday dress? “Nothing new,” she hedged, “but our minds sort facts differently. Gisele didn’t murder her husband.”
“In affairs of the pen I defer to you, Madame. At the Sûreté, we rely on logic. The peasant loves the prince. The chef blocked her way.”
“You read too many romantic novels, Inspector. A jeroboam of prewar Chambertin says there’s nothing but friendship between Gisele and Henri.”
“I’m a teetotaler, but supposing you’re right, that leaves greed. Different face, same coin. Roland loaned his in-laws a million francs, collectable at will. He was about to ruin them. We found his letter demanding the money or the farms.”
“This letter—he hadn’t mailed it?”
“No. It was on his desk, in plain sight.”
Colette sifted probabilities. “Gisele couldn’t have seen it, or she would have warned her family.”
“No married woman could have missed it. Face it, Madame, your protégée decided to take care of Roland herself. If his threat to her parents doesn’t convince you”—Ducasse paused for drama—“my men found something else. The coin flips back to love.”
“You may as well tell me, Inspector, so I can refute you.”
“Refute this—behind Gisele’s chiffonier was a note asking her to come to the Bois at dawn; in other words, a few hours before Roland was stabbed. Signed ‘your dear friend’ in farcically crude handwriting. The transparent disguise of the exalted Count de Rossat, who was certainly advising Gisele step by step.”
Robespierre must have left progeny, Colette thought, listening to the fury in Ducasse’s voice.
“Anonymous notes? Dashing about at dawn?” She affected a chuckle. “What a lot of work for a man who had nothing to gain from Roland’s death.”
“I repeat, the answer is love. With Roland dead, Gisele and Henri would be free to marry. The count has no doubt begun to tire of his elderly wife.”
“Nonsense. My husband is sixteen years my junior, and we’re the best of friends. I’m a realist, Inspector. Marriage has nothing to do with love.”
Had she, three times married, really uttered those words? Had seventy-four years so eroded her heart? “Men like Henri need a purse. And Liane’s purse is colossal.”
“Roland’s estate goes to Gisele.”
“The estate of a chef?” Colette clucked her tongue. “Another thing. Why would a murderess leave a trail of bread crumbs—letters, combs, a knife from her own kitchen?”
“I said the girl was in love, I didn’t say she was clever, for all that she carries your novels around in her pocket. Though I must admit, she fooled you, Madame.”
Fooled? Every instinct told her Gisele hadn’t murdered Roland, and yet there was something hidden about the girl, something buried far deeper than truffles. Colette considered how carefully Gisele had selected The Innocent Libertine instead of the Gothic romance, a choice meant to flatter, so she’d assumed at the time. And the secret note Gisele had apparently left for anyone to find. Why, in spite of the note, had Gisele gone for her walk later rather than earlier?
The libertine and the note.
Yes.
A connection slipped into place.
“You’re right, Inspector, Gisele has fooled me. Bring her here, and I’ll give you irrefutable proof of her innocence.”
The day turned chilly, but her fur blanket put an animal warmth into her legs. Ducasse had agreed to bring Henri as well as Gisele. These days wherever Henri went, Liane followed, so in a few minutes there would be four at her table.
She ticked off her arsenal: Tapestry? Handy. Workbasket? Out of reach on a shelf. Lipstick, a touch of kohl. She was ready.
Like a country hearth, the blue lamp invited her visitors to bask inside a circle of light. Pauline offered chocolates, tea, and madeleines, but only Henri, careful of his worsted, was eating. Freshly hennaed and slimmer than ever, Liane sat next to him.
Colette embroidered her tapestry, needle weaving a story she might afterward tell with her pen. Stitch after stitch fleshed out a rose. “Gisele,” she said, “on Wednesday, why did you leave so late for the Bois?”
“I was watching for Henri.”
“Do you walk together every morning?”
“Sometimes we meet after his ride.”
“Oh, really.” Two words out of Henri’s lockjawed mouth, and already Ducasse looked annoyed. As did Liane.
“Of course not.” Gisele’s voice was casual, indifferent to Henri. In her simple white blouse and gray skirt, she looked like a postulant with a prayer book in her pocket.
“Did you kill your husband?”
“No.” That was all. No trembling chin. No fluster. Formidable child. When this was over Colette intended to invite Gisele to play bridge with Maurice and Cocteau.
“Did you know your husband meant to seize your family’s farms?”
“No.”
Ducasse jumped in. “The letter was on his desk. You must have seen it.”
Colette silenced him with a look. “Tell me about the anonymous note,” she said to Gisele, possibly the calmest person in the room.
“It came Tuesday night. Someone knocked, and when I opened the door I saw an envelope on the floor with my name on it.”
“Your name?”
“Yes.” Some emotion, irritation perhaps, at last crept into Gisele’s voice.
“You’re sure—”
The chair creaked under Ducasse’s impatience. “It was her name. I saw it myself.” He turned to Giselle. “Madame Roland, why did you ignore the count’s note?”
“Really, Inspector.” Henri’s face slackened into petulance. “I did not send that note.”
Colette cast her line in a different direction. “Gisele, did you bring my novel?”
From deep inside a gore-seam pocket, Gisele pulled out the little book.
“Open to page forty-seven.”
With painstaking fingers, Gisele leafed through the pages. “Here.” She offered the book to Colette.
“Just read from the top, my dear.”
“My eyes.” Gisele rubbed her lids. “Blurry today.”
“Would you like more light?”
“I am waiting.” Ducasse’s voice came from far away.
Colette’s heart beat in her throat. “You will wait forever. Won’t he, Gisele?”
The country bride shook her head, an ivory comb slipping from her braid.
“Read,” Colette said.
“Chapter…” A capillary pink suffused Gisele’s neck. “Chapter…”
“There are no chapters in my book.”
Gisele pressed a hand to her cheek.
“You can’t read, can you, my dear?”
“No! I can’t!” Her face twisted with rage, Gisele stabbed a long finger at Colette’s name on the cover. “Names I recognize. Numbers. The kitchen boy helps me with menus and things. I saved the note for him to read to me later.” Still no tears, but Gisele’s face was on fire. “ ‘Reading leads to reading,” she said, mocking Colette’s easy aphorism. “For me nothing leads to reading. At school they thought my eyes were bad. My friends helped me. That’s how I got Henri to read this to me.” She pitched The Innocent Libertine across the room. “Satisfied? Now that you’ve shown the world how stupid I am?”
“My dear child, I’ve shown the world how innocent you are.”
No one spoke.
While Colette waited for the truth to sink in, she drifted on her raft, past Henri, fingering his tie, past Ducasse and Liane, both sipping tea. On the mantel glass paperweights glowed, chrome yellow, cobalt, all the colors of tropical fish.
She circled back to Liane. “Countess, would you be so kind? Fetch my crewelwork needle?” She pointed at her workbasket across the room.
“Is this what you mean?” Liane held out a fat needle, its eye cocked like a wink.
“The very one. Bring it here, will you?”
Something must have shown in Colette’s face, because Liane hesitated before coming close.
“Thank you.” Like a mongoose, Colette grabbed Liane’s wrist and pushed back the sleeve, exposing the Gypsy bracelet.
“Don’t touch it!” Liane screamed. “It’ll bring you bad luck.”
But the bad luck was all Liane’s, her arm trapped in Colette’s steel grip. A few jabs with the needle released the mermaid catch and, like a hinged shell, the bracelet fell open.
Bruises, fading from purple to sulfur, girded Liane’s hidden skin.
“Your own little fling?” Colette asked. “Did Roland forget himself and hurt you where others could see?”
“She’s covered with bruises,” Henri murmured. “For Liane, pain equals joy, something I can’t give her.”
“They battered each other.” Colette pictured the scrapes on Roland’s hands and neck. Scarred by Liane’s fingernails? The tips of knives?
“He was blackmailing me,” Liane whispered. “He took pictures with a hidden camera and threatened to publish them.”
Colette, once married to a baron, understood Liane’s predicament. If Roland exposed her to the world, Henri’s mother, descended from kings, would be unable to endure the infamy. She would push Henri into divorce. And divorce would cost Liane her title.
Worse, half her assets—for Liane, true infamy. She had to shut Roland’s mouth, search his apartment, implicate Gisele.
If only Topaz could speak. Dogs don’t shy away from blood, they’re carnivores. But a tender pooch might shy away from the scene of a murder he had witnessed.
Shouts, Liane’s sobs, mingled with Colette’s thoughts. Let the inspector sort out the pieces. She’d done enough. She snapped off her lamp, and silent as a ghost, Pauline appeared with the coats.
When they were gone, Colette turned to watch the sky through her window. It was the sky of Paris, the color of cats, and slowly darkening. Already the moon hung over the gardens, but there was an hour still, she thought, of good light. She picked up her pen.