Strangled in Paris: 6th Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

Following my stroke and my marriage to Colonel Réauville, I decided to start an artistic salon in my home in Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. I organise dinners there, which the members of the Dupleix Committee8 often attend. They are experts in these matters. As my fourth husband never ceases to remind us, “The Celestial Empire and its satellite states have no real language – so let us give them one!”’

      ‘Bravo! Where there is effort, success will follow.’

      Exhausted by the conversation of the battle-axes – the name he gave to the windbags who surrounded him – and by the persistence of Maurice Laumier who, the previous year, had tried to seduce Iris, Joseph sought to conceal himself behind his newspaper. He noticed an advertisement at the bottom of the page.

      Modern! Unprecedented!

      Ever in search of the most exciting serials for our readers, Le Passe-partout is proud to be the first to publish the second work by Monsieur Joseph Pignot, Thule’s Golden Chalice. The first instalment appears next month and those who enjoyed The Strange Affair at Colombines (published as a novel by Charpentier & Fasquelle) will love the gothic adventures of the intrepid Frida von Glockenspiel and her dog Éleuthère, on the trail of the evil amber. It is a story that will enchant our male readers just as it will delight the ladies and our younger readers.

      Taken aback, Joseph folded the newspaper, set it down next to the bust of Molière, and scratched his head, muttering, ‘Those swine! I’ve been waiting for a reply since October. They could have warned me! We haven’t even discussed the contract. All they gave me was two hundred francs – that’s nothing! Next time, I’ll demand a thousand francs! Although Clusel won’t like it, that’s for sure. I’d go down to eight hundred francs, but that would be my last offer, otherwise…’

      He rubbed his hands.

      ‘Soon, fame, acclaim and the whole caboodle! What a bunch of rotters … They’ve delayed publishing my masterpiece to keep that scribbler Pelletier-Vidal happy! His style’s terrible and his plots are totally insipid. They only like him because he knows Paul Bourget!’

      Maurice Laumier was approaching the fireplace when a new arrival, with a hat bristling with feathers and a mouth like a parrot’s beak, pushed him out of the way and bore down on Joseph.

      ‘Olympe, what a surprise!’ twittered the battle-axes.

      ‘Monsieur Pignot, be so kind as to fetch me Sophie’s Misfortunes by Madame la Comtesse de Ségur née Rostopchine. I want to read it to my niece Valentine’s twin sons, Hector and Achille.’

      ‘I think that must be down in the basement.’

      ‘Then don’t dilly-dally, young man! Run and fetch it!’

      ‘But who’ll look after the shop?’

      ‘Do you doubt our integrity?’ exclaimed Olympe de Salignac.

      Casting a conspiratorial glance in Joseph’s direction, Raphaëlle de Gouveline, the woman with the dogs, thought it judicious to intervene.

      ‘Such a charming story, and such wholesome reading! Who could not delight in the chapter where Sophie, anxious to cure her doll of a terrible migraine, decides that she must bathe her feet in hot water? But the doll is made of wax and Sophie’s doll becomes a cripple! It was so moving – didn’t it make you cry?’

      ‘My dear, are you sure that such a thing happens?’

      ‘Positively, Olympe. And then there is the famous part about the goldfish, where the unfortunate creatures are beheaded alive by the little innocent Sophie! I still tremble at the memory.’

      ‘Hmm. I think I shall buy them some tin soldiers instead. Yes, that’s an excellent way to teach them a sense of duty and patriotism. Will you come with me, ladies?’ she proposed, without taking leave of Joseph.

      With a rustle of skirts and a draught of cold air, they all left, including the old man, who followed Madame de Réauville-Brix like a little dog.

      Maurice Laumier and Joseph were left facing one another like two duellists about to set upon each other, but they had to content themselves with verbal jousting.

      ‘Good Lord, it’s the Rubens of the boozer himself.’

      ‘I’ll eat my hat if that isn’t the Dumas of the down-and-outs! How fares your lady love, by the way?’

      ‘Sorry to shatter your dreams, but Iris has become Madame Pignot.’

      ‘Paris is heaving with unattached muses. Pass on my condolences to your wife.’

      ‘Why should I do that?’

      ‘She has traded in her precious liberty in return for the austerity of matrimonial life. So sorry to have disturbed you.’

      ‘You certainly have disturbed me! So clear off!’

      ‘With pleasure – as soon as I’ve seen Monsieur Legris. On an urgent matter.’

      ‘Then I can finally get rid of you – my brother-in-law is at his apartment on Rue Fontaine.’

      ‘You’re his brother-in-law and yet you’re still a shop assistant? They’re taking you for a ride!’

      ‘I absolutely forbid you to—’

      ‘Farewell, happy husband!’ trilled Maurice Laumier, lifting his beret. ‘And tell your better half that I’m ready to sketch her in profile or full face, dressed or in the altogether, whenever she chooses!’

      Joseph looked around for something to throw at the bounder’s head, but he suddenly found himself alone.

      His anger evaporated and he felt crushed by a mass of black thoughts. He was no good, either as a bookseller or a writer. Iris’s love for him was just a delusion, and their newborn would be a hunchback. What was the point?

      ‘My pet, I’ve made your favourite food for this evening. You need to feed yourself up,’ called his mother. ‘I’ve hidden it away at the back of the cupboard – all you have to do is heat it up.’

      The prospect of a carnivorous feast restored his faith in the future.

      ‘Hooray! A rare steak with fried potatoes!’

      *

      Tasha nibbled at her thumbnail, unable to choose between two paintings: one a nude of a seated man viewed from behind, and the other a Parisian cityscape at dusk. She was tempted to seek advice from Victor, who was over in their apartment at the far side of the courtyard, developing his photographs. She resisted.

      ‘The cityscape’s definitely better.’

      Shortly after their wedding, which had taken place in a registry office in the autumn of 1893, with no witnesses except their close family, they had worked out a strategy that allowed both of them to pursue their own activities independently. They devoted the mornings to their respective passions: books and photography; painting and illustration. Whenever their busy schedules allowed, they had lunch together in their apartment in Rue Fontaine, where they had employed a former butler, André Bognol, to cook and clean for them. This efficient man had liberated them from the indiscreet Euphrosine Pignot.

      When they hadn’t had time to see each other at all during the day, they dined together in the evening. Tasha often returned home late, however; either because she was held up in town by meetings with other artists, or because she had stayed longer than planned at her mother’s house, where she still gave lessons in watercolour painting. Tasha sometimes had a prick of conscience about this, because although Victor denied it she feared that he felt neglected by her. She therefore made sure that her Sundays were devoted to him, frolicking in bed, strolling along the banks of the Seine or travelling to the outskirts of the city for a breath of fresh air.

      Having previously dreaded the thought of being married, she now had to admit that she had not sacrificed any of her independence. Victor was more attentive than ever, and their desire for one another