Project 1

The noontime sun was intolerably hot and bright, the kind beneath which the very stones of Paris seemed to give off a punishing glare. Dust clung in sickly motes to the air, stirred by the constant hammer of hooves and the wheels of carriages grinding along the cobblestones. Commissaire Armand Delatour rode upright in the saddle of his black warmblood gelding at the head of the escort, his uniform immaculate despite the heat pressing against him from all sides. His collar gripped his throat like a vice, and though the brim of his hat shaded his eyes, it could not keep the sting of sweat from gathering beneath it. He made no move to wipe it away. Around him, a handful of armed gendarmes rode in a neat, tight column with their sabres glinting and their carbines slung across their backs. The horses, anxious and overheated, stamped and tossed their heads, but the men held firm.

Between them rode the prisoner, the reins before him held in the hand of a guard.

Capitaine Nicolas de Vieuxpont did not slouch or bow his head. He sat with stiff pride in his saddle and was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties with a clean-shaven jaw and a soldier’s shoulders. Even now, even under these circumstances, de Vieuxpont looked every bit the respectable officer he had once been. The son of a bourgeois family in Normandy, he came from a line of avocats and clerks and was himself properly educated. But his dust-stained coat and dulled boots betrayed him now, after days of confinement, despite the lack of apology in his face. Delatour noted with a great deal of irritation that de Vieuxpont seemed to think it was the guards and the police themselves who ought to be ashamed.

Delatour ground his teeth and fixed his eyes ahead. That insolent composure was wretched, and he despised it. A cutpurse, a drunkard, a bread thief, even a rebel with a paving stone in his hand ready to be thrown… those men were plainly criminals and the lines were clear. This one, Capitaine Nicolas de Vieuxpont, had been an officer of the National Guard. He had known his duty, and he had chosen to neglect it. On the fifth of June, at rue du Cloître-Saint-Merry, he had failed to mobilise his men with any speed, had left a flank dangerously exposed, had not answered when order was most required. Rumours fluttered now of the captain’s republican sympathies. To Delatour’s mind, there was no doubt at all. It was treachery, pure and simple.

But the crowds of Paris never missed the chance to gape and speculate, and now men were on doorsteps and women were leaning from windows, watching as the cavalcade passed. Filthy, yelling children darted between carriages to stare at the prisoner, mouths agape with curiosity, whilst tradesmen and grisettes set down their armloads to whisper together. Some laughed, but too many of them were quiet, murmuring, their eyes lingering too long on de Vieuxpont’s straight-backed figure. Sympathy. Delatour saw it in too many faces, and he hated it.

The scorching sun beat down upon his hat and burned across his shoulders through his coat. His horse’s breath huffed in short bursts, his reins slick beneath the leather of his gloves. He rode on in rigid and slightly angry silence.

It was far better, Delatour thought grimly, to face a riotous barricade head-on than this polished disdain and hints of compassion from the masses for him. Better a gutter-thief face the guillotine than an educated soldier who had betrayed his post be paraded.

But the column pressed westward toward the Seventh. Soon enough, they would reach the barracks where the man would be locked and kept under guard, and soon enough, Delatour would need to once again meet Commissaire Auguste Maes, the one charged with the administration of that arrondissement. It was not at all lost on Delatour, today of all days, that Maes was a confident but polished Lillois with a slightly thinner but more sinewy frame than he, a man whose public civility and little smile never failed to rankle. And he had spoken far too freely about Delatour’s guardianship over Claire Fournier and had, it seemed, read the filed Supplémentaire. Thus, Delatour anticipated the meeting with no pleasure at all.

The heat of the ride somehow only seemed to swell as the column turned into the shadow of the Caserne du Gros-Caillou. The barracks loomed like a great stone rectangle across the street with heavy and pale walls and high barred windows and a tiled roof that shimmered in the sun. The wide parade-ground before it was empty save for a few scattered conscripts running drills, moving like slugs in the noon blaze. There was a faint haze of dust that got into Delatour’s eyes and the scent of stables that got into his nostrils, and beyond, the Seine tossed back a blinding reflection of the sunlight.

The main gate was tall and studded with iron, flanked by two young sentries in clean white breeches and new-looking blue coats. Their muskets were held upright and glinted in the punishing daylight. As Delatour approached at the head of the escort, one of them barked out, sharp and automatic in a boy’s voice that tried to sound frightening,

“Halte-là ! Qui vive ?”

“Police, Fourth Arrondissement,” Delatour answered quite abruptly, with precisely the same gravel of command he used for every street patrol. He held out the folded order in his gloved hand and informed the two young sentries, “Transfer of a prisoner, by command of the Préfet.”

The guards looked him over with slight scepticism, their eyes slipping to the refined-looking man on horseback behind. De Vieuxpont, still proud, still shameless, did not flinch. Delatour sucked upon the insides of his cheeks as his black gelding stepped about impatiently.

One of the sentries called a word or two over his shoulder and the wicket opened in the gate. Another skinny, green soldier hurried out, sweat streaking his flushed face, to collect the order. Delatour dismounted heavily, his polished boots hitting the dusty cobbles with a deliberate thud. He stalked over to the younger men and handed over the folded paper with stiff precision, hiding his displeasure and performing his duty as assigned.

“Capitaine Nicolas de Vieuxpont of the National Guard.” Delatour stated the facts simply. “Prisoner is accused of treasonous dereliction of duty, fifth of June, rue du Cloître-Saint-Merry. To be held here under guard until further proceedings.”

The soldier before him blinked at the words but then bowed nearly to the waist, too low for simple hierarchy, and carried the sealed order within. Delatour turned at once, giving the column a peremptory command and watched as the horses stamped restlessly. The gendarmes shifted with unease and waited. The too-quiet crowd that had trailed them lingered at a safe distance, still murmuring, still craning necks to glimpse the well-bred officer prisoner as though the barracks itself were a theatre curtain about to rise.

Several minutes yawned as Delatour stood beside the thirsty and impatient gelding he had dismounted with the reins in his hands, his irritation prickling with his sweat around his collar and temples. He glanced over to see that Capitaine Nicolas de Vieuxpont still sat tall in the saddle, silent and disdainful, as if this procession were some formal review in his honour rather than the march of disgrace it was meant to be.

Delatour recalled, suddenly, Jean Mercier and Adrien Beaumont, found carved open at the mouth of a sewer after the uprising. He recalled being held prisoner himself at a barricade. He recalled little Étienne shot straight through. And he recalled signing a Supplémentaire to ensure Claire Fournier’s safety because the foolish uprising had left her orphaned and without the man who might have been her husband.

“All for nothing,” he whispered furiously between his teeth.

The gate creaked open at last, and the soldier reappeared with another man who was cleaner, neater, and more polished. This was Commissaire Auguste Maes, of course. His uniform coat was immaculate despite the heat, and he carried his hat tucked beneath his arm. His expression, maddeningly composed despite his age, was set in the same civility Delatour had seen from him on several occasions now.

“Commissaire Delatour,” Maes said smoothly, inclining his head fractionally and speaking with practised, mild politeness. “I had word you were coming, though, mon Dieu, how you must have suffered under this blazing sun.”

Delatour gave no commentary to the pleasantry and instead noted simply, “The prisoner is here, under escort, Commissaire Maes. By order of the Préfecture, he is to be received and secured here.” His voice was level and harsh and bore no real courtesy.

Maes received Delatour’s report with a small inclination of his head, then turned half aside and summoned a lieutenant with a flick of his gloved fingers. The younger officer came quickly, his boots scuffing in the dust, and Maes handed over the folded order with a short, murmured instruction. The young lieutenant eagerly barked for two men, and in a moment de Vieuxpont was required to dismount.

The captain swung down lightly from the warmblood he’d been given, his spurs clinking against the cobbles, and stood almost at dignified attention, as though he had come for inspection rather than confinement. One of the guards took his horse’s bridle and led him within the barracks, and the crowd outside, which had been kept at bay by the wall and gate, gossiped in a low swell that rose and fell like surf against stone. Delatour’s mouth set harder than ever.

“See the escort and their mounts to water,” Maes ordered a nearby sergeant crisply, and he hastened to obey. The gendarmes who had come with Delatour looked relieved as they surrendered their reins and followed toward the stables at the far end of the parade-ground. They seemed as grateful as the horses for the promise of shade and a bit of water as they were led away. In their absence, the air grew strangely still, and was broken only by the hum of flies and the distant creak of leather.

Maes turned again then and curled up his lips. “You will forgive me if I insist we take our business indoors, Commissaire Delatour. There is a chamber within that serves me well enough when I must be at the Caserne, and we shall be much cooler there. Come.” His tone was even, almost urbane. Yet beneath it was that infuriating suggestion of refined civility that grated.

Delatour looked at him a moment, his cheeks hollowing faintly as he drew upon the inside of his mouth again. He knew well that any refusal of professional hospitality now would only appear peevish, so he gave a short nod, brusque enough to close the matter, and he said, voice low and unyielding, “As you wish, Monsieur.”

He looped his gelding’s reins into the hand of a waiting stable boy and fell into step beside Maes. His boots struck hard against the stones. Behind them, the gate clanged shut, the city fading away in mute dimness. The broad façade of the barracks swallowed both Commissaires, and they passed beneath its archway into a passage cool with shadow, the air sharp with lime and faint with straw and then through a doorway.

The chamber Maes made use of at the barracks was neither grand nor squalid, but it did carry the air of temporary authority. This was an office made to serve, not to impress. The thick lime-washed walls were bare but for a wooden crucifix hung near a framed order of the day from the Minister of War. The shutters at the windows were open; they were tall casements turned out upon the sun-baked parade-ground. It did little good to let the air in, for the breeze that entered was heavy with dust and the sour tang of stables. In the centre of the office, a battered oak desk bore several neat ledgers, their corners stacked with a precision that spoke of Maes’s fastidiousness. At the far wall, a sideboard had been set with a pewter pitcher that was already sweating with condensation and a few glasses.

Delatour followed Maes inside, his boots sharp upon the flagged floors and the weight of the sun still upon him. Maes indicated a pair of plain but sturdy chairs, and both men removed their hats. Delatour set his own very carefully upon the oak desk’s edge before lowering himself into the nearest seat. His spine remained rigid and knees squared, with his broad hands resting against his thighs as though braced for some sort of inquisition. Maes sat opposite him with an easy composure, leaning back just enough to suggest that here, at least, he was master of the room.

Wordlessly, after just a moment, Maes rose and took the pitcher in hand from the sideboard and poured two glasses full of water, then placed one before Delatour with smooth economy, keeping the other for himself. Delatour nodded just a bit to acknowledge the drink and lifted the glass. He drank more deeply than was perhaps graceful, though with the same precision that governed all his motions, his throat working hard as he swallowed through his monstrous thirst. He set the empty glass down again with quiet, controlled finality.

Only then did he reach two fingers into the breast pocket of his uniform coat to draw a square of linen. It unfolded carefully in his hand, the white handkerchief he had folded carefully this morning and tucked there, its edges worked over with the fine embroidery of a young woman’s diligence. Around the outside wound an elegant vine and at its centre was the looping flourish of a single initial.

He pressed it briefly to his brow to daub carefully at the sweat. He touched once to the line beside his eye, then lowered it to his temple. The handkerchief absorbed the dampness from his skin, yet his fingers lingered for a half moment. He smoothed the fabric once, his thumb drifting over the smooth raised threads as memory struck—Claire Fournier in the candlelit glow of the salon, slipping the work shyly into his hand, eyes lowered with uncertainty. He set his mouth hard and folded the cloth with rigid care, tucking it back against his palm though it suddenly seemed heavy. When he glanced up again, he saw that Maes’s pale eyes had flicked once, briefly, toward the handkerchief, and then delicately away. Delatour’s breath huffed.

Outside the open window, a poorly trained horse stamped and whinnied in the yard; harness clinked; a young officer shouted. Maes swirled his water glass lightly, watching the play of condensation along the side. His wretchedly civil little smile returned, too courteous, too composed.

“Intolerable weather,” he noted at last, as though to bridge the gulf that had opened. His voice bore the lazy ease of a northern bourgeois accustomed to polite banalities. “Paris is a furnace at noon in the summer. One must pity those forced to toil and march beneath it.”

Delatour’s brow went up for just a moment, but his reply came curt and flat. “The city will endure. It always does.”

Maes chuckled softly, unoffended, before he sipped some water. “She does. So she always has.” He set his water glass aside with precise care. His gaze remained level then as he blinked twice at Delatour. His tone was amiable, but there was something studied and circling in his words.

“You know, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he continued after a pause, “I really must beg your pardon for a remark I made some nights ago, at Les Frères Provençaux, in company with our colleagues. I fear I gave offence.”

Delatour stiffened visibly at the mention, though he did not speak. His fingers flexed once against the rim of his empty glass, then flattened again against the desk. His shoulder raised once in an awkward shrug until his epaulette brushed roughly against his jaw.

Maes, watching with the keen observation and the dispassion of an interrogator, allowed the pause to stretch before he went on with pointed polish.

“I spoke then,” he reminded him, “of my son. You will forgive me, I hope, for what must have seemed presumption. I had not realised, at the time, how delicate the subject of marriage regarding your ward, Mademoiselle Fournier, might be. It was only paternal thought that outran propriety. My son is a respectable notary, as I mentioned. He is steady, gainfully employed, calm, and unencumbered, if— as I said— a bit plain of face. But in suggesting him, I meant no insult at all.”

Delatour’s eyes narrowed and his lips pressed thin. He could neither confess the outrage he had felt that night with bouillabaisse and wine before him, nor fully dismiss Maes without appearing derelict as Claire Fournier’s guardian. His blank quiet was answer enough, though at last he ground out, in a voice flat and curt,

“The subject requires no further discussion.”