When they reached the Rue du Dauphin, which at that time had not yet been widened, Crevel stopped before a small door. The door opened on to a long passage paved with black and white flagstones that formed an entrance hall; at the end of it was a staircase and a porter’s lodge lit by a small inner courtyard of a kind frequently found in Paris. The courtyard, which was shared with the next-door property, was an unusual example of unequal division.
Crevel’s little house, for he was the owner, had an annexe with a glass roof, built on the neighbouring ground. The height of this structure was restricted by court order and so it was completely hidden from view by the lodge and the protruding staircase.
This place, like so many one sees in Paris, had long been used as storeroom, back premises, and kitchen for one of the two shops facing on to the street. Crevel had separated these three ground-floor rooms from the rest of the property let to the shop, and Grindot had transformed them into a small, compact house.
There were two ways of entering the house. The first was through the shop of a furniture dealer, to whom Crevel let it by the month at a low rent, so that he could penalize him for any indiscretion. The second was by a door so skilfully hidden in the passage wall that it was almost invisible.
The little dwelling, consisting of a dining-room, a drawing-room, and a bedroom, lit from above, standing partly on the neighbouring ground and partly on Crevel’s was therefore almost impossible to find. With the exception of the second-hand furniture dealer, the tenants were unaware of the existence of this little paradise.
The porter’s wife, who was paid to be Crevel’s accomplice, was an excellent cook. So Monsieur le Maire could go in and out of his compact little house at any hour of the night without fear of being spied on.
By day, a woman dressed as a Parisian dresses to go shopping and provided with a key, ran no risks in going to Crevel’s place. She could look at the second-hand furniture, discuss the prices, go into the shop, and leave it, without arousing the least suspicion if anyone should meet her.
When Crevel had lit the candlesticks in the sitting-room, the Baron was quite amazed at the elegant luxury with which it had been intelligently furnished. The former perfumer had given Grindot carte blanche and the old architect had excelled himself by the creation of a room in the Pompadour style, which, incidentally, had cost sixty thousand francs.
‘I would like a duchess who comes in here to be agreeably surprised,’ Crevel had said to Grindot.
He had wanted the loveliest of Parisian Edens in which to enjoy his Eve, his society lady, his Valérie, his duchess.
‘There are two beds,’ Crevel told Hulot, pointing to a divan from which a bed could be pulled out like a drawer from a chest-of-drawers. ‘Here’s one; the other is in the bedroom. So we can both spend the night here.’
‘Show me the proofs,’ said the Baron.
Crevel took a candlestick and led his friend into the bedroom, where on a small couch, Hulot saw a magnificent dressing-gown belonging to Valérie; she had worn it in the Rue Vaneau to show it off before using it in Crevel’s little house. The Mayor undid the lock of a secret drawer in a pretty little inlaid table of the kind called bonheur du jour, rummaged in it, picked up a letter, and handed it to the Baron.
‘Look, read that.’
The Councillor of State read the following little note, written in pencil.
‘I waited for you in vain, you old rogue. A woman like me never waits for a retired perfumer. No dinner had been ordered and there were no cigarettes. You’ll pay me for all this.’
‘Isn’t that her writing?’
‘My God!’ said Hulot, collapsing into a chair. ‘I recognize everything she’s worn; there are her caps and her slippers. Oh, my goodness, how long have you …?’
Crevel nodded to show he understood, and picked up a bundle of bills from the little inlaid writing-table.
‘Look at these, old chap. I paid the contractors in December 1838. Two months before that, in October, this delightful little house was first used.’
The Councillor of State bowed his head.
‘How on earth do you manage it? For I know what she does with her time, hour by hour.’
‘But what about her walk in the Tuileries?’ said Crevel, rubbing his hands and gloating.
‘Well?’ continued Hulot, in a daze.
‘Your so-called mistress goes to the Tuileries. She is supposed to be having an outing there from one till four. But, hey presto! In a trice she’s here. You know your Molière? Well, Baron, there’s nothing imaginary in your title.*
Hulot, no longer able to have any doubts, remained ominously silent. Disasters drive all strong, intelligent men to philosophize. Morally, the Baron was like a man seeking his way in a forest by night.
The gloomy silence, the change which had come over his dejected countenance, alarmed Crevel, who had not wanted to cause his old crony’s death.
‘As I was saying to you, old chap, we’re quits now. Let’s play the deciding game. Don’t you want to finish the rubber? May the cleverest man win!’
‘Why, out of ten beautiful women, are at least seven depraved?’ said Hulot, talking to himself.