J. Janes - Tapestry

The House of Madame Chabot on the rue Danton.

‘Or at the flat on the rue Suger which is just around the corner,’ said Henri gravely. ‘Are you really a chief inspector?’

‘I’m even armed. This is my gun, this one, that of my partner.’

‘And that?’ asked Oona tensely of the glossy black, regulation-issue handbag under his arm.

‘A little something for Hermann to return to Rudi Sturmbacher as soon as possible.’

They didn’t ask further and that was a good sign. Louisette hesitantly took his fedora, Henri more assuredly the overcoat and overshoes, Oona the handbag, she mastering the shock of its weight and knowing only too well what it must contain.

‘The kitchen,’ she said, ‘or would you prefer our room?’

‘Our petit salon, ’ said Henri.

‘Our very own,’ said Louisette, whose hair brushed her shoulders every time she tossed her head. ‘ Maman has helped us with it, you understand, Monsieur l’Inspecteur principal. There it is warm and there we are allowed to keep the things we love and to have adventures.’

‘Then that’s where we’d best go,’ St-Cyr heard himself saying. Merde, was he, too, about to burst into tears?

‘ Maman would not have done what they are saying in the papers or on the stairs and in the halls at school,’ said the boy.

‘She didn’t need to be punished,’ Louisette added with, she felt, the necessary amount of severity. ‘She is a good woman, Monsieur l’Inspecteur principal, not a bad one. A tramp!’

‘A slut,’ muttered Henri. ‘A paillasse !’

‘Henri, Louisette, mes chers , make the inspector some tea, please. The camomile … do you think that would suit him best?’

‘Et pour toi?’ asked the boy, using the familiar.

‘Moi aussi, merci.’

‘But first our salon ,’ said Louisette. ‘Our very own place of magic.’

The room was all of that and more. A clutter of flea- shy;market gleanings, paintings and drawings by the resident artists, a puppet theatre d’apres Guignol, brass urns, candlesticks, mushroom- shy;shaded lamps, carpets, divans and pillows, a library, too, and wireless set.

They watched him closely, the two of them. They saw him tear his gaze from the dial and he heard them sigh with satisfaction and whisper to each other, ‘Just like Herr Kohler, he has looked to see if we have been breaking the law and listening to the BBC Free French broadcasts from London or the Voice of America’s swing music of Messieurs Goodman, Dorsey and others.’

They had their tea. They apologized for not having tobacco and acknowledged that they knew he preferred his pipe, ‘his little friend,’ to cigarettes.

Each in their turn said that they were sorry to learn of the loss of his wife and little son. ‘And of Herr Kohler’s two boys at Stalingrad,’ Henri said.

‘ Mes amis, a moment, please. If Hermann and I are to find the one who hurt your mother, I must get to know her better. First, the rest of the flat, and then the desk she keeps-the place where she writes to your father. Photos of her, all such things.’

‘Messages?’ asked Henri.

‘Certainly.’

‘There are none,’ whispered Louisette darkly. ‘She took it with her.’

‘It was from one of her students, I think,’ said Henri. ‘Madame Ouellette, our concierge, gave it to Maman last Friday before the lady from the Maison du Prisonnier came to see us.’

‘The Mademoiselle Rouget,’ said Louisette distastefully. ‘The one called Denise.’

‘It was sealed, you understand, and Maman told us not to say anything of it to that one, and only that it was something she had to do for … for us all.’

‘Jean-Louis, you must understand that Adrienne-Madame Guillaumet-had had trouble paying the rent. Her in-laws …’

‘They receive the three-quarters, in total, of Papa ’s military pay, Inspector,’ said Henri, ‘but from that deduct nothing for our rent.’

‘And give her absolutely nothing for the children or herself, or for the parcels they send to him each month. Her sole source of income has been the two francs a day the government in Vichy provides towards the cost of the parcels and …’

‘Her pay from teaching,’ said Louisette, watching him closely. ‘One thousand a month. It is not much, so messages have to be received from time to time, is that not so?’

‘Show me the flat. Come on, you two. Help me to build a profile of her.’

They took him from bedroom to bedroom, all but one of which, it appeared, hadn’t been in use since before the Defeat. ‘We slept with her,’ Louisette said. ‘She read to us just like Oona does.’

‘And the Mademoiselle Giselle,’ said Henri, ‘but she slept on the floor beside us. It was like camping, she said. She’s very beautiful and lots of fun, as … as is Oona, of course.’

‘Certainly,’ said Louisette, taking Oona by the hand to place it fondly against a cheek.

The salle de sejour , closed off and never used, not since the husband had gone off to war, appeared just as that one must have wanted it kept: totally undisturbed by the children or the wife, except when dusted. A mastery of Art Deco into which had been fitted several gorgeous pieces of Biedermeier, it had a chaise longue from among the earlier of such pieces: 1825 by the look-Josef Danhauser’s workshop in Vienna? St-Cyr wondered. Of walnut, though, not of the South American hardwoods, which had first been used. The British naval blockades during the Napoleonic Wars had forced a return to native woods. A vitrine and matching cabinet were of birch, with a black lacquered ormulo clock and tasseled candlesticks to perfectly set off the latter. The pear-wood fauteuils were from 1845 perhaps, the maple side table and breakfront bookcase also, everything exuding that clear, clean and uncomplicated line so characteristic of the style, and of Art Deco too, the name coming, of course, not from any furniture maker but from Gottlieb Biedermeier, the much-loved character of a novel whose bourgeois opinions were those of his readers, bieder meaning honest, worthy, upright or just plain simple.

It was only later that the style, admired at first by the Prussian and Viennese aristocracy, began to be appreciated by the bourgeoisie and no longer thought of as ridiculing them.

In the dining room the Biedermeier was Russian and of birch wood, the room exquisite but also off-limits and kept closed. Had she been a prisoner of this husband of hers? he had to wonder but couldn’t ask, though Oona intuitively knew what he was thinking.

‘Her desk, Jean-Louis. It’s there that she has faithfully kept every shy; postcard they have received from the prison camp.’

‘But only the one letter she was going to send back,’ said Henri.

‘ Maman hadn’t started it yet,’ confided Louisette. ‘We’re not allowed to keep any of Papa ’s letters. They must all be returned to him for safekeeping.’

‘Idiot, it’s because Maman has to write on the back of them,’ said Henri.

‘Two are received each month and two of the postcards,’ said the sister, ignoring her brother. ‘Unless, of course, Papa sends them to his mother and father.’

Because Madame Guillaumet was a career officer’s wife and not that of a common soldier like Madame Barrault, the allowances the Government in Vichy paid, even though only to wives whose incomes were below five thousand francs a year, wouldn’t have been available to her. Having a salary would have helped, since she would then have been eligible for the family allowance and social security, but unfortunately career officers’ wives had never been allowed to take full-time jobs outside the home, and the part-time teaching wouldn’t have counted.