He gave a slight sigh. “It is a tragedy, Bertie. I never dreamed that such a calamity could devastate my family. Rosine, my only daughter—do you remember Rosine?”

  “The last time I saw her was at Biarritz. She must have been about thirteen.”

  “She’s twenty now, a young woman. Exquisitely beautiful. I’m not expressing a father’s biased opinion, Bertie; I’m quoting Le Figaro. But beautiful isn’t the word that would spring to mind if you saw my little Rosine now. She is racked with grief. I even begin to fear for her sanity, she has taken this so badly. And her mother, Juliette, of course, is in a state of profound shock. You must forgive us if neither of them comes to be presented.”

  “Jules, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing them,” I assured him, recalling Juliette as a domineering woman who wanted the family and everyone else to dance to her tune. Her state of pro­found shock was a happy escape for us.

  Sarah added with more tact than I thought she possessed, “It is more than enough that you are willing to receive us.”

  In a low, expressionless tone that was so unlike his usual conversation, Jules gave us the salient facts. “Rosine became engaged two weeks ago to a young man called Maurice Letissier. The Letissiers are well regarded, a family who have occupied the same château in the Loire for three centuries. I know the parents well, and—without being snobbish—they are the sort of people one hopes one’s daughter will live among.”

  “They race horses,” I remarked, to indicate that I’d heard of them.

  “Yes, indeed. They have stables at Longchamp, just down the road. I don’t think Maurice was actively involved in the rac­ing. His sport was shooting.”

  “What did he shoot—grouse?”

  “Waterfowl mainly, I believe.”

  “So what happened? Was it a loose gun?”

  “No, no. I’m coming to that. All this is frightfully confidential, Bertie. There’s been far too much in the newspa­pers already.”

  I assured him warmly, “You may depend on me. I’ve held the press at bay for most of my adult life. And I’ll vouch for Sarah’s discretion.”

  Jules nodded. “I can vouch for that myself.”

  Bernhardt turned her eyes up to the ceiling as if she were in direct communication with the Almighty. I’d seen her do it before, when playing Jeanne d’Arc.

  Satisfied that we could be trusted, Jules informed us, “The engagement was announced a week ago last Saturday and the civil marriage was to be on the twenty-third of June, followed by a church wedding the next day.”

  “So soon?”

  Bernhardt said, “Bertie, in France we don’t go in for long engagements.”

  “The details of the marriage contract were settled in a most civilized way between the families,” Jules went on to inform us. “I found Letissier senior a charming fellow to deal with. On Wednesday, the young couple dined with the Letissiers at the château, and on Friday we took them out to Magny’s.”

  “Magny’s. I frequently dine there myself,” I told him. “Was it an agreeable meal?”

  “The food, you mean? Absolutely. One couldn’t fault it.”

  “And the conversation?”

  “Oh, Juliette, as usual, had more to say than the rest of us put together. If possible, the engagement had made her more animated than ever. It was an ambition fulfilled. Not that the rest of us were silent, but you know how she can be. We talked until almost eleven and then went on to a dance hall.”

  “Saucy!”

  “Oh, it was Rosine’s idea. She’d planned all week that we would end the evening that way. According to our daughter, everyone is going to the Moulin Rouge near Montmartre these days. Respectable people.”

  “I’ve been there,” put in Bernhardt, begging the question.

  Jules went on: “Rosine insisted that it was terribly chic and there was supposed to be a marvelous cabaret. I’ve heard of such places before and I was none too enthusiastic, but Maurice said it was a stunning idea, so I felt obliged to fall in with the sugges­tion. You can’t really stand in the way of a young couple when you’re celebrating their engagement. Off we went.”

  “The four of you?”

  “Five. We had Tristan with us—didn’t I say?”

  “Tristan?”

  “My son. Rosine’s young brother. He’s eighteen now, in his first year at the Sorbonne. Naturally, the dance hall had his vote, too. We arrived about half past eleven, when the place was fill­ing up with people coming from the restaurants. I was reassured to find that we weren’t by any means the only party wearing silk hats, although it wasn’t exactly the Alcazar. Some of the women we passed in the hall were blatantly cocottes.”

  “And good luck to them,” said I smoothly, at the same time giving him a broad wink, for I happened to know that Bernhardt’s mother had been one of the sisterhood.

  “Oh, certainly,” he succeeded in saying. “We were shown to a table at the edge of the dance floor and served with drinks. A band was playing for general dancing, so by turns we joined in, and I must admit that it was amusing to tour the floor with some of those exotic characters who patronize the place. Then at midnight, the floor was cleared and the cabaret announced. When I say ‘cleared,’ I’m referring to a space at the center not much larger than this room. In fact, it was the signal for people to crowd onto the floor in significant numbers and it rapidly became obvious that we would see nothing unless we aban­doned our table and joined them, so we did. I remember feeling anxious about pickpockets.” Jules sighed. “Pickpockets! If I’d known what was about to happen, I’d gladly have settled for having my pocket picked. We found ourselves in the thick of the crowd, with a partial view over the shoulders of people ahead. There were others behind us; everyone very excited, for this was one of the nights when La Goulue performed.”

  “That creature!” said Bernhardt.

  Perhaps I should explain here that the lady who rejoiced in the soubriquet of La Goulue, “The Glutton,” was at this time (1891) at the height of her fame, a performer of outrageous dances verging on indecency, yet unquestionably one of the chief attractions in Paris. Bernhardt’s contempt may have been mixed with some envy.

  “First we had the cancan, of which I saw very little from our position, although the music, so-called, was deafening, and then La Goulue was announced and made her entrance.

  She need not have bothered so far as I was concerned, because all I could see of her was the strange topknot of carroty hair that is her trademark, but her partner, a tall, thin man of grotesque features known as Valentin, was more visible in his top hat, leading her in a surprisingly subdued dance. All around us, people were calling out and straining for a better view. It was not unlike being close to the winning post at the races. I’m telling you all this because of what happened shortly after. The chahut was announced and the tempo of the music quickened.”

  “Chahut?” I said dubiously, for the word means “uproar” or something similar in the French argot.

  Bernhardt rapidly informed me that it was a dance, an old-fashioned dance recently revived and made notorious by La Goulue and others and involving two athletic feats, le grand écart and le port d’armes, high kicks that required the dancers to perform the splits in the upright position while balanced on one leg.

  “Chahut, it became in the literal sense,” Jules resumed, “for just as the dance was reaching its climax, the dancers leaping like beings possessed, the music at crescendo, the crowd shriek­ing encouragement, there were two deafening explosions close at hand. I felt a terrific jolt the first time and another immedi­ately after as people reacted, uncertain whether it was part of the performance. There were some screams and I caught the smell of cordite, though I still didn’t fully understand what had hap­pened. Maurice, you see, was still on his feet, though mortally wounded by two shots in the back.”

  “Dreadful!”

  “Yes, it was. The pressure of the crowd kept him upright. There was some screaming from hysterical people, but I think no one appreciated that murder had been committed on the floor of the Moulin Rouge until the dancers stopped uncertainly and the crowd drew back. I gripped Maurice under the armpit and someone else was on his other side. Between us, we were holding him up. We let him down gently to the floorboards. He made no sound. I believe he was already dead. Of course a doctor came forward and after a few minutes we moved him to a dressing room. I could, see myself that it was a matter for a detective, not a doctor.”

  “What an appalling crime,” I said. “Is no one apprehended? There must have been a hundred witnesses.”

  Jules gave a Gallic shrug. “The Sûreté are investigating. They say paradoxically that too many witnesses are an impedi­ment. It is difficult to find an assassin in a crowd.”

  “But who would want to shoot the young man? Did he have enemies?”

  “None that my family has heard about.”

  “Could it have been a case of mistaken identity?” (You can see how actively my brain was working, reviewing each possi­bility.)

  “They simply don’t know, Bertie. Goron himself is at work on the case.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Goron—chef de la Sûreté.”

  “Is he any good?”

  He stared at me as if I had insulted the tricolor.

  Bernhardt told me, “Marie-François Goron is a legend in Paris. He arrested Allmayer, the King of Rogues, and Pranzini, the triple murderer.”

  “But he has failed so far to find the killer of young Letissier,” I remarked in a way that deflated them both. “Jules, I myself am not inexperienced as a criminal investigator. A mere amateur, yes. The resources of the Sûreté are not at my disposal. No gendarmerie, no whistles, no capes. However, I have Madame Sarah Bernhardt to assist me, and—without denigrating Monsieur Goron—I venture to suggest that she and I are as capable of solving this mystery as anyone else in Paris.”

  Bernhardt turned to me as if I’d tugged her bustle. Fortunately, poor old Jules didn’t notice. He was far too occu­pied trying to think what to say to me.

  I saved him the trouble. “Of course you are about to remark that I shouldn’t undertake so dangerous an assignment. It has been said before, Jules, and more than once. I appreciate the sentiment each time I hear it, I give my thanks, and then I ignore it completely. Good Lord, we’re the oldest of friends. I can’t turn my back on you in this hour of crisis.”

  His face creased with emotion. “Bertie, don’t think me ungrateful—”

  “Never,” said I, placing a hand masterfully around his shoulder. “The decision is made. Tonight Sarah and I shall visit the Moulin Rouge to see where the poor young man was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Feeling hungry, we stopped at the first wayside hostelry on the road back to Paris. The choice was a happy one, as it turned out, even though, amazingly, the patron failed to recognize either of his visitors. We had the dining room to ourselves, simply furnished, with a good log fire and an enormous dog asleep on the hearth rug—that is, until Bernhardt decided to embrace the “poor dumb creature.” Nothing can be taken for granted where she is concerned. Having told me she was famished, she ordered onion soup and nothing else, while I lunched on chicken liver pâté (much of which Bernhardt fed to the dog), followed by roast quails in a mysterious and quite delicious sauce. On inquiry, I was advised that this small establishment employed its own saucier, who had no other duties. I expressed surprise, giving Sarah the opportu­nity to quote Voltaire’s unkind remark that England is the country of one sauce. Unkind and untrue, as I pointed out, for what are applesauce, mint sauce, and bread sauce? She had no answer.

  The shooting at the Moulin Rouge was hardly a suitable topic for luncheon, so I reminisced about the Jules d’Agincourt I’d known on happier occasions, at the races and down at Biarritz. “He is unfailingly kind. On one occasion, we took the children for a picnic in the country and the Agincourts came with us. This must have been about 1874, when Eddy, my eldest, the Duke of Clarence, was nine or ten. I say it myself—because I’m damned if I’ll allow anyone else to say it—Eddy can be extremely tiresome when he’s not watched. His sister Louise had brought with her a favorite doll, which at some point in the after­noon went missing. There was such a chorus of lamentation, with Victoria and Maud joining in, that for some peace and quiet we grown-ups were compelled to make a search of the area. I was convinced that Eddy was responsible and threatened to send him home directly if he didn’t at once tell us where he’d hidden the wretched doll. The queen is always telling me that our chil­dren should have been whipped from infancy as we were, and I suppose they are inclined to rampage when excited, but Alix and I have never cared for corporal punishment. Well, to cut the story short, Jules informed the party in all seriousness that he’d spoken to a bluebird, which had told him that Elizabeth, the doll, had met some pixies and been taken to fairyland. If there were no more tears, he solemnly informed us, Elizabeth would be returned to Louise before midnight with a gift from the fairies.”

  “What a charming notion!” said Bernhardt. “Had he found the doll?”

  “Yes, but in no condition to return to a sensitive little girl. Someone had taken a knife to it. Most of the stuffing had spilled out.

  “Eddy?”

  “I fear so. I was so angry that I was ready to forget my prin­ciples and warm his backside there and then until Jules per­suaded me to ignore the incident, pointing out that every boy has done something destructive at some stage in his youth. That night, the doll, invisibly repaired, with, I believe, an entirely new torso, was returned to the nursery. When Louise found it the next morning, there was a crystal-bead necklace around its throat and a larger one beside it, for the child to wear. Typical of Jules’s kindness.”

  “He’s such a lovable man,” murmured Sarah.

  “He’s not alone in that,” I was quick to remind her, “but he has a remarkable understanding of children. I’m sure that Rosine and the boy must have had a blissful upbringing. This horrible murder—you have finished your soup, have you?—has obviously affected poor Jules the more because of his closeness to Rosine.”

  “Do you think he is too close to see?” said she.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Sometimes a father who dotes on his daughter refuses to believe that she is human, a woman, with a woman’s desires.”

  Bernhardt is so used to projecting her voice that she must have been audible in the kitchen. I cautioned her to speak more softly. “Are you suggesting that there may be a second young man in Rosine’s life?”

  She gave a nod.

  “A crime passionnel, eh?”

  “Look at the circumstances,” she said. “The girl has just become engaged and pouff! The man is shot down in front of her. It shrieks of jealousy to me.”

  “So we look for the rejected lover?” To be truthful, I was more than a little skeptical of the theory. Bernhardt’s passionate imaginings would run to melodrama of this sort.

  “You don’t sound impressed, Bertie,” she commented. “Do you have a better proposal?”

  “For the moment, yes,” said I. “I shall try the crêpes suzette.”

  That evening I wrote a short letter:

  Hotel Bristol Paris

  My dearest Alix,

  Paris without you is indescribably dull. Weather barely tolerable—a wind from the North Pole, I am informed. Compelled to wear flannel underclothes, which always make me appear corpulent. But that’s enough of me. This morn­ing, I called on Jules d’Agincourt, our old friend of years past. The poor fellow was in low water, his prospective son-in-law having been dreadfully murdered in a Montmartre dance hall. Do you remember little Rosine, his daughter? Un­believably she is grown up and the victim was her fiancé. The top man of the Sûreté is investigating and no doubt will make an arrest shortly. Scant consolation for the Agincourt family.

  I shall endure a few more days of walking the dog here before taking the train to Cannes.

  Kiss Toria and Maud for me. And my parents-in-law if I am in better odor this visit.

  Ever your loving Bertie

  The same evening, I escorted Sarah Bernhardt to the Moulin Rouge. Sometimes in the pursuit of the truth, one is obliged to venture into places one wouldn’t normally patronize and make a show of enjoying oneself.

  Montmartre is a revelation by night. No city in the world has as many restaurants and dance halls as Paris, and this is where most of them are concentrated. There’s nothing special in that, you may say, but you should see their names written in flames in the gas festoons outside every one. You should see the magic lantern projections making spectacular sights out of dull stone walls. Above all, you should see the Moulin Rouge.

  This temple for worshipers of the cancan was built by Charles Zidler in the year of the Paris Exposition, the same year that they erected that monstrosity, the Eiffel Tower. The mock windmill outlined with red electric lightbulbs has been described as an excrescence on the boulevard de Clichy, but per­sonally I find it less offensive to good taste than Monsieur Eiffel’s so-called miracle of engineering on the Left Bank. We approached the Moulin by landau from the rue Blanche, and long before reaching the top of the rise we could see the night sky glowing crimson. The sense of anticipation was irresistible to a woman of Bernhardt’s sensibilities. She squeezed my hand and said, “Là là, Bertie!” Swathed in sealskin trimmed with sable (nothing was said about the dumb creatures who had sup­plied their hides), she brandished an ostrich-feather fan that she seriously suggested she could use to conceal her identity. Of course we were recognized the moment we stepped from the carriage.

 

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