Finally, he tried the first door again. Just as he was about to turn away, it was answered, and the young woman Mademoiselle Cadeaux had initially spoken to last night appeared.
She was even younger than he had realised last night. No more than fourteen, with bright green eyes and a slender figure. No, he was wrong—she was thin. And now he could see her clearly, he realised as she opened the door and came forward, that she was limping. Her left foot dragged, no movement in it, hence her slow response to his knock.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Avers bowed towards her, giving his friendliest smile. “I have come on behalf of Mademoiselle Cadeaux to ensure her gifts were all that was expected last night.”
“Mademoiselle Cadeaux!” the young girl breathed in reverential tones. “Oh yes, she has been most generous.” The girl’s face beamed with joyful innocence. “Both Mademoiselle and the other actresses. She said Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette had given her admirers’ gifts as well and the lady has many! I will go and get bread this morning for myself and Réne.” The young girl pointed over Avers’ shoulder and he turned to see the old man who had been mute to him a short while ago, watching him warily from his doorway.
“I am just waiting for my aching to subside and then I will go.” She gestured to her lame leg, but to Avers’ surprise, continued to grin joyfully.
“An excellent idea,” Avers replied, smiling back at her.
Mere yards from this alley the Concierge could be found, dispensing justice and housing royal prisoners. The irony was not lost on Avers. These people had been served a far harsher judgement in life than the political prisoners nearby.
Suddenly, the hurt of his heartbreak, though no less painful, shifted to a different place in his mind and the new perspective made it somewhat more bearable.
“They are very kind ladies,” Avers said, pondering on the admirers’ gifts, and hoping it might provoke a little more explanation. Already though, he was realising the purpose of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s visit here last night was the furthest thing removed from selling secret papers.
“They are, oh, they are,” the girl said in the same breathy, awed tones. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux has insisted on coming to us once a sennight to give us the money the actresses receive from their admirers since last December. That is when the grain shortage happened, and we could not affor—”
“Béatrice!”
Avers jumped. The old man had appeared at his elbow.
He spoke in rapid-fire French to the girl and Avers failed to follow. But the result was written in her expression—she suddenly looked at Avers with fear.
“Are you… ” She trailed off, then the old man spoke under his breath and Avers caught the title, Comte.
Stepping back to show he meant no harm, as the old man and Béatrice huddled together in the doorway, Avers inclined his head saying, “I am not the Comte de Vergelles.”
The old man still looked suspicious. An interesting reaction.
“You have found me out though,” Avers said ruefully to the old man, deciding some version of the truth would be best to try and prevent these people speaking to Mademoiselle Cadeaux of his visit. “I have recently made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Cadeaux and I find myself… admiring her. When I saw her leave the theatre last night alone I worried and so I followed her here to ensure she was safe. I am afraid that when I did so my curiosity was piqued and so I decided to come back and find out why she had visited.”
“Friends,” the old man grunted.
Avers paused. Who was the old man talking about—his relationship with the Comte’s mistress?
“Mademoiselle Cadeaux has not forgotten us.”
Avers looked about himself with fresh eyes and a dawning realisation. Had Mademoiselle Cadeaux once lived here, in this dark and dirty alleyway, on the underbelly of Paris?
“Of course. She is a remarkable woman,” Avers said. “And may I also give you a gift?” He reached inside his cloak and withdrew a purse full of coins, holding them out.
The sight of this girl—her bare and dirty home behind her, the worn clothes she wore and the lack of flesh in her cheeks—pulled at Avers’ heart. He was rarely confronted with such blatant poverty. Even his servants were better dressed and fed than this old man and girl. What kind of future awaited them?
“Non.” The old man put a protective arm around the girl and raised his hand.
“But I may buy flowers with this,” Béatrice protested. “Please, Réne.”
“Flowers?” Avers queried.
“I sell flowers on the Pont Neuf,” said the girl brightly, “but I cannot always afford to buy them. Mademoiselle’s gift will pay for bread, Réne, but with this gift, I could go to Les Halles for flowers from Provence.”
“Then take it.” Avers pushed it into her hands, ignoring Réne’s obvious distrust. “I am not the Comte—can you not hear my English accent?” he asked in a tone to provoke amusement.
Béatrice grinned at him, clutching the coin purse to her chest, and even Réne relented a little.
“That man is evil,” he muttered.
“Oh?” Avers asked.
“Mademoiselle Cadeaux would do well not to go near him. We hear things. We know to keep away from him.”
These ominous words were the last Réne uttered. Despite Avers urging and coaxing him, hoping to find out more, the old man fell silent again.
“Well, I shall take up no more of your time, for you will be wanting to get to your flower market.” Avers bowed as low as he would to any Countess or Duchess. “I thank you both for your time.”
“No—thank you—and Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” the girl said with sudden fervour, taking up Avers’ hands to pull him to standing and pressing her fine, bony fingers around his own. “Please tell her how grateful we are.”
Avers said nothing. He had no intention of passing on the message, and he could not bring himself to lie. Instead, he smiled at the girl, inclined his head towards Réne, who gave a brief nod back, and turned to leave. He exited the alley and the squalor in which the vast majority of Paris lived and returned to the city of his own kind.
What had he learned? That Mademoiselle Cadeaux had not come here to work on behalf of the Comte. From these people’s reactions, it seemed they would have nothing to do with the French noble. She had in fact come for charitable efforts, to a people she had an affinity with because she, like them, had once been living hand-to-mouth in the back streets of the French capital.
Avers felt a strange sort of sheepishness at having intruded on a secret part of this woman’s life. He had unwittingly done so and discovered a facet of her character previously hidden. From the secretive way she came to the Île de la Cité, it was not something she wanted advertised—the complete opposite of the bragging Madame Pertuis.
Avers had found out one very important piece of information. Mademoiselle Cadeaux was not who he’d thought she was. Not at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
