handkerchief when her own grew sodden. At length she calmed and lifted away her veil. Beneath it she was ashen, with dark smudges beneath her eyes, her face powder blotched and streaked with tears.
“Was Saint-Ange extorting money from you?”
She went even paler beneath the remains of her powder. “Was he?” Aristide repeated. “We need to know.”
“Please—if my husband hears a breath of this, my life won’t be worth a sou.”
“You can trust our discretion.”
“You—you don’t think I murdered him?” She clutched at his arm. “I swear—”
“Citizeness … please, tell me the truth.”
She swallowed but said nothing. Aristide sighed and gestured to Dautry to cease writing. “Very well. Perhaps the commissaire couldn’t, in good conscience, do this; but I can.” He took Dautry’s notes and dropped them in the fire, but not before he had made a mental note of her address.
“You’re right,” she said after a moment of silence. “He was demanding money from me. He—he knew I had a lover … I don’t know how he knew … I’m married to a man seventeen years my senior. He treats me well enough, but he’s horribly suspicious; he sees infidelity in every word I exchange with another man. Until eight months ago I’d never given him reason to be jealous.”
“But you’ve fallen in love?”
“Yes—with a younger man, who is kind and sympathetic. I was lonely, and I broke my marriage vows … I—I kept his letters. I was a fool. I ought to have thrown them on the fire after I’d read them. But I couldn’t.”
Aristide nodded. “And Saint-Ange got hold of these letters?”
“I don’t know how. I knew him slightly, but he’d never been a guest at my house. One day I received a message, telling me to meet him at a certain café, and it enclosed one of Fernand’s—one of my lover’s letters. I went to their hiding-place—beneath the lining of my jewelry case—and the letters were gone. I don’t know how he could have taken them. Not even my maid knows where I kept them.”
“What sort of woman is your maid?”
Madame Beaumontel frowned, puzzled. “Victoire? She’s an ordinary sort of woman, not terribly clever perhaps, though I’ve no complaints about her work.”
“Is she young and pretty?”
“No, not especially; she’s older than I, about forty.”
“I ask because usually it’s a lady’s maid who unwittingly allows men of this sort to do their work. Before you found the letters were missing, was Victoire behaving in an unusual manner? Was she more animated, perhaps?”
“I think—yes, she was. She was looking pleased with herself.”
Aristide nodded. “Then you may count on it she’d found a lover. Plain, unmarried women of that age are usually susceptible. Tell me, how long did she behave in this fashion? Not long?”
Madame Beaumontel frowned. “I was so distressed I scarcely noticed her behavior … but yes, she suddenly became preoccupied … and then ill-natured and morose.” She drew a quick breath. “Oh, no—do you mean Saint-Ange was the man?”
“I expect so. As I said, a woman of that age is an easy target for a seducer. He probably flirted with her on her afternoons off, made love to her; she secretly let him inside the house, and one night, while she was asleep, he crept into your boudoir and searched for anything incriminating.”
“But how could he have known that—that I had a secret to protect?”
“Well,” Aristide said, “young, pretty wife, middle-aged husband … there’s usually a lover somewhere. And I’m sure Saint-Ange was a practiced observer of human nature, since he evidently depended on extortion for his livelihood. Did you think you were the only one paying him to keep a secret?”
She stared at him, speechless. “Gossip must have been his food and drink,” he continued. “If you say you’d known him—”
“We had met a few times, at the theater, and at the homes of friends.”
“Then he would have had
“Was Saint-Ange extorting money from you?”
She went even paler beneath the remains of her powder. “Was he?” Aristide repeated. “We need to know.”
“Please—if my husband hears a breath of this, my life won’t be worth a sou.”
“You can trust our discretion.”
“You—you don’t think I murdered him?” She clutched at his arm. “I swear—”
“Citizeness … please, tell me the truth.”
She swallowed but said nothing. Aristide sighed and gestured to Dautry to cease writing. “Very well. Perhaps the commissaire couldn’t, in good conscience, do this; but I can.” He took Dautry’s notes and dropped them in the fire, but not before he had made a mental note of her address.
“You’re right,” she said after a moment of silence. “He was demanding money from me. He—he knew I had a lover … I don’t know how he knew … I’m married to a man seventeen years my senior. He treats me well enough, but he’s horribly suspicious; he sees infidelity in every word I exchange with another man. Until eight months ago I’d never given him reason to be jealous.”
“But you’ve fallen in love?”
“Yes—with a younger man, who is kind and sympathetic. I was lonely, and I broke my marriage vows … I—I kept his letters. I was a fool. I ought to have thrown them on the fire after I’d read them. But I couldn’t.”
Aristide nodded. “And Saint-Ange got hold of these letters?”
“I don’t know how. I knew him slightly, but he’d never been a guest at my house. One day I received a message, telling me to meet him at a certain café, and it enclosed one of Fernand’s—one of my lover’s letters. I went to their hiding-place—beneath the lining of my jewelry case—and the letters were gone. I don’t know how he could have taken them. Not even my maid knows where I kept them.”
“What sort of woman is your maid?”
Madame Beaumontel frowned, puzzled. “Victoire? She’s an ordinary sort of woman, not terribly clever perhaps, though I’ve no complaints about her work.”
“Is she young and pretty?”
“No, not especially; she’s older than I, about forty.”
“I ask because usually it’s a lady’s maid who unwittingly allows men of this sort to do their work. Before you found the letters were missing, was Victoire behaving in an unusual manner? Was she more animated, perhaps?”
“I think—yes, she was. She was looking pleased with herself.”
Aristide nodded. “Then you may count on it she’d found a lover. Plain, unmarried women of that age are usually susceptible. Tell me, how long did she behave in this fashion? Not long?”
Madame Beaumontel frowned. “I was so distressed I scarcely noticed her behavior … but yes, she suddenly became preoccupied … and then ill-natured and morose.” She drew a quick breath. “Oh, no—do you mean Saint-Ange was the man?”
“I expect so. As I said, a woman of that age is an easy target for a seducer. He probably flirted with her on her afternoons off, made love to her; she secretly let him inside the house, and one night, while she was asleep, he crept into your boudoir and searched for anything incriminating.”
“But how could he have known that—that I had a secret to protect?”
“Well,” Aristide said, “young, pretty wife, middle-aged husband … there’s usually a lover somewhere. And I’m sure Saint-Ange was a practiced observer of human nature, since he evidently depended on extortion for his livelihood. Did you think you were the only one paying him to keep a secret?”
She stared at him, speechless. “Gossip must have been his food and drink,” he continued. “If you say you’d known him—”
“We had met a few times, at the theater, and at the homes of friends.”
“Then he would have had
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