CHAPTER II

MONSIEUR BROMMARD

De Sartines had no need to urge expedition on Lavenne. Lavenne always moved as quickly as possible between two points. After the King and de Sartines, Lavenne was perhaps the best and most quickly served man in France. The carriages of the Hôtel de Sartines were always ready and never broke down, the horses of the Hôtel de Sartines never went lame, the grooms, the veterinary surgeons, and the coachmen employed by the Ministry of Police, were men who had been tried and tested, men, moreover, who knew that drunkenness, insubordination or neglect would be visited by imprisonment, not dismissal.

The Minister of Police knew the value of speed, and since the safety of France might depend upon the horses of the Minister of Police, he did not boast when he made the statement that his horses were the swiftest in France.

In five minutes’ time, after giving the order, Lavenne was seated in a closed carriage drawn by two powerful Mecklenburg horses, and the carriage was leaving the courtyard of the Hôtel de Sartines and taking its way towards the Faubourg St. Honoré. During the journey, Lavenne studied the papers given to him by his master, pages and pages of reports. One might have fancied that the matter had to do with the assassination of an emperor, rather than the poisoning of a dog.

Lavenne read the whole of these papers and reports carefully, and then, folding them, placed them in his pocket.

According to them, everyone possible in connection with Versailles, the Trianons, and even with Luciennes, had been questioned and examined without result. The whole thing seemed to Lavenne rather clumsy. This questioning of individuals could bring little result. To the question, “Did you poison the dog?” could come but one answer, “No.” And the poisoner was unlikely to have acted in the presence of a witness. The thing that did strike Lavenne as peculiar, was the fact that there had been no accusations; it was just the case for false accusations, yet there were none.

At Versailles, having ordered the carriage to be kept in waiting, he crossed the park to the Trianons. Arrived at the Grand Trianon, he walked round to the kitchen entrance. Here there was great bustle and movement, goods arriving from tradesmen in Versailles and being received by the steward, scullions darting hither and thither, and everyone talking. In the kitchen, it was the same.

Lavenne knew everyone, or at least was known by everyone, especially by Brommard, the master cook, who, magnificent in paper cap and white apron, was directing operations.

“Ah, Monsieur Lavenne,” said Brommard, “and what happy chance brings you here to-day?”

“Why, I had some business at the Petit Trianon, and I just walked across to see if you were alive and well. _Ma foi_! Monsieur Brommard, but you are not growing thinner these days.”

Brommard heaved a sigh.

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, I am not growing thinner, though if worry made a man thin, I would be a rake, what between tradesmen who do not send provisions in time and cooks who spoil them when they arrive. I have to supervise everything, and I have only two eyes instead of the two hundred that I require.”

“Well, Monsieur Brommard, we all have our worries, even his Majesty, who, I fear, is in trouble over the death of his favourite hound, Atalanta.”

Brommard made a motion with his hand.

“Oh, _ma foi_! don’t speak to me about that business. Why, Monsieur Lavenne, I was had up myself and questioned on the matter by Monsieur de Sartines. As though I had poisoned the brute! I said to him, ‘I know nothing of the matter, but since Atalanta was served every day at the King’s table when he was at Versailles, she may have died of Ribot’s cookery’; for Ribot, as you know, is now the chef at Versailles, a gentleman who stole the recipe of my Sauce Noailles and gave it forth under the name of Sauce à la Ribot. Put his name to my sauce! God’s death, Monsieur Lavenne, a man who will steal another man’s sauce is not above poisoning another man’s dog. Not that I accuse Ribot, poor fool; he has not the spirit to poison a louse, and they say his wife beats him with his own rolling-pin. I accuse him of nothing but theft and stupidity, certainly not of poisoning his Majesty’s dog wilfully. Besides, Monsieur Lavenne, the dog was not poisoned, in my opinion.”

“Give us your opinion, Monsieur Brommard.”

“Well, it is this way, Monsieur Lavenne—What does all cookery rest on?”

“I am sure I don’t know, unless it is the shoulders of the chef.”

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, all cookery rests on an egg. The egg is the atlas that supports the world of gastronomy, the chef is the slave of the egg. Think, Monsieur Lavenne, what is the masterpiece of French cookery, the dish that outlives all other dishes, the thing that is found on his Majesty’s table no less than upon the tables of the Bourgeoisie, the thing that is as French as a Frenchman, and which expresses the spirit of our people as no other article of food could express it—the Omelette. Could you make an Omelette without breaking eggs? Aha! tell me that. Then cast your mind’s eye over this extraordinary Monsieur Egg and all his antics and evolutions. Now he permits himself to be boiled plain, and even like that, without frills, naked and in a state of nature, he is excellent, for you will remember that the Marquis de Noailles, when he was dying and almost past food, called for what?—an egg, plainly boiled.

“Now he consents to appear in all ways from poached to _perdu_—an excellent recipe for which is to be found in my early edition of the works of Taillevent, who, as you know, was master-cook to his Majesty King Charles V.

“Now he is the soul of a _vol-au-vent_, now of a sauce; not a pie-crust fit to eat but stands by virtue of my lord the egg, and should all the hens in the world commit suicide, to-morrow every chef in France worthy of the name would fall on his spit, as Vatel fell on his sword, and with more reason, for fish is but a course in a dinner, whereas the egg is the cement that holds all the castle of cookery together.”

“_Pardieu_, Monsieur Brommard,” said Lavenne, laughing, “you are quite a philosopher, and I shall certainly take off my hat to the next hen I meet. But, tell me, what has an egg to do with the poisoning of Atalanta?”

“Nothing, Monsieur Lavenne; God forbid that it should. I was about to say that, just as all cookery stands on an egg, so does the whole world stand on commonsense; and it is not commonsense to think that any man would poison Atalanta, who was a gentle beast, on purpose to spite his Majesty. Atalanta, in my opinion, poisoned herself. Dogs are not like cats. If you will observe, a cat is very nice in her feeding. Offer her even a piece of fish, and she will sniff it to make sure that it is in good condition and not poisonous, before she will touch it. Whereas dogs eat everything.”

“Dogs eat roses,” said a small voice.

It was Brommard’s little son, who, dressed in a white cap and apron, was serving his apprenticeship as a scullion. He had drawn close to his father, and had listened solemnly to the discourse about eggs.

Brommard glanced down and laughed, then he excused himself for a moment to supervise the work of one of the under-cooks, who was larding a fowl.

“Oh,” said Lavenne, “dogs eat roses, do they? And how do you know?”

“Monsieur,” said the child, “I have seen Atalanta, the beautiful dog of his Majesty, snap at a rose. I told my father when they were saying that Atalanta was poisoned, and I said that I had seen Atalanta eat a rose, and that perhaps the rose had killed her, and he laughed. But dogs do eat roses.”

“And where did you see Atalanta eat this rose?”

“It was near Les Onze Arpents, monsieur. A gentleman and a lady were walking together, and he was holding a rose in his hand. The rose was hanging down, so, and the dog, who was following them, sniffed at the rose and then bit it.”

“Yes—yes?”

“Well, monsieur, the gentleman, when he saw what the dog had done, threw the rose away behind his back into some bushes; the lady did not see, she was talking and laughing.”

“What day was this?”

“The day before Atalanta died, monsieur.”

“What was the gentleman like?”

“Very ugly, monsieur, and pitted with the smallpox.”

“And the lady?”

“Oh, I don’t know, monsieur, but she walked with a limp.”

“Ah, well,” said Lavenne, “dogs may eat roses, but roses do not poison dogs; so I would advise you to forget what you saw, or the ugly gentleman may be angry with you. You seem a bright boy, and here is something to buy sweets with. You are learning to be a cook, I suppose?”

“Monsieur,” said the child, gravely, “I am a cook. I can lard a fowl and make an omelette and a mayonnaise, and I have committed to memory the rules and recipes of twenty-three sauces out of the two hundred and twenty-three that my father knows. Yet, all the same, I must serve my apprenticeship as a scullion, cleaning pots and pans and preparing vegetables and fish and game. But I do not grumble.”

Little Brommard—destined to be the cook of Napoleon—put the coin Lavenne had given him in his pocket, and, thanking the latter, went off to supervise another scullion who was at work on some vegetables, whilst Lavenne, bidding good-bye to Brommard _père_, took his departure.

He took a side-path that led to the cottage of the chief gardener of Trianon.

That official happened to be in, and Lavenne invited him to put on his hat and to come out for a moment’s conversation.

“Well, Monsieur Lavenne, what can I do for you?” said the man, putting on his coat as he came out, and latching the door behind him.

“You can get a spade and take me to the place where you buried the dog belonging to his Majesty. I see by the report that you were ordered to bury it.”

“You mean Atalanta, monsieur?”

“The same.”

The gardener, without a word, went to the tool-house by the cottage and took out a spade, then, shouldering the spade, he led the way to a clear space amidst some bushes.

“Now,” said Lavenne, “dig me up the remains of the animal. I wish to examine them.”

The gardener did as he was told, and Lavenne, on his knees, made a minute examination of the mouth of the dog. The body of the animal, lying in a light, dry soil, showed no trace of putrefaction, being, so the gardener said, as fresh as when he buried it.

Lavenne, having finished his inspection, rose to his feet, dusted the soil from his knees, and having paid the man liberally for his trouble, took his way to where the carriage was waiting to convey him back to Paris. On the journey, he made some notes with a pencil in his pocket-book.

He had discovered the poisoner of Atalanta. Led by the luck that sometimes attends genius, or perhaps by the commonsense which made him conduct his inquiry, not by direct interrogation, but by conversation on things in general, he had accomplished in a few hours what Sartines had failed to accomplish in several days.

Arrived at the Hôtel de Sartines, he found his master absent and Monsieur Beauregard acting in his stead. Beauregard was a big, fine-looking man, one of the best swordsmen in France, fearless and honest, but not of the highest intelligence as far as detective work was concerned. Nor did Sartines use him for that business. Sartines had made Beauregard his chief of staff because the latter had all the qualities of a good organizer, the fidelity of a hound, and the rigid business methods in which Sartines was lacking. He was also a fine figure of a man, and so upheld the dignity of his position in the eyes of the Court and the populace.

Beauregard was a great friend of Lavenne.

“So his Excellency is out,” said Lavenne. “Well, that is a pity, as I have some news for him, and a request to make.”

“And the news?” said Beauregard.

“The news is, simply that I have found an indication as to the poisoner of Atalanta.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_! My dear Lavenne, if you can only put your finger on that person, you will own the thanks of the entire staff. It is not that a dog has been poisoned, or that the dog is the favourite dog of the King, or rather, I should say, was the favourite dog of the King. It is that the Hôtel de Sartines has been put to shame by a small matter like this. Other failures one can hush up; other failures, though, indeed, we make few enough, are forgotten; but the smell of this business seems to permeate everywhere; and the thing will not be forgotten, simply because it is so small that it gives such a splendid field for the little wits of Paris and the Court to exercise themselves in.”

“Well, Captain Beauregard,” said Lavenne, “the poisoning of Atalanta, though seemingly a small enough affair, will, if I am not greatly mistaken, be the centre of an affair big enough to satisfy even the Hôtel de Sartines. I hope to put my hand on the poisoner, and in doing so to clear Monsieur de Rochefort from the charge of being an assassin, and also I hope to save a woman’s life.”

“_Mordieu_!” said Beauregard, “you are going to do a great many clever things, then—— Tell me, am I in your secret?”

“Why, yes, I don’t mind letting you know what is in my mind, though you know how I hate telling of what I propose to do or propose to find. As a matter of fact, you are the only man in France to whom I can talk, and yet feel that I have not lost energy in so doing; for it is a strange thing, but once one opens one’s mind to an ordinary person, a blight seems to creep in on the precious thoughts, hopes or ambitions that one cherishes in darkness. And I will tell you why it is different with you. You do not criticize or throw doubts upon budding fancies. Were I to open my mind to Monsieur de Sartines quite fully, he would put his hand in and take out my most precious thoughts, turn them over, criticize them, throw cold water upon them, perhaps, and put them back—then they would be dying—or dead.”

“I do not criticize you, Lavenne, because I have a lively feeling that any criticism of mine would be an impertinence, at least on the work of so close a reasoner as you are. Tell me, then, and I will repeat nothing—Who was the poisoner of Atalanta?”

“Count Camus.”

Beauregard whistled.

“And who is the lady whose life you are going to save?”

“The Comtesse Camus.”

“The man’s wife?”

“Precisely.”

“Good God!—and how is it threatened?”

“By poison.”

“And who is the prospective poisoner?”

“Count Camus.”

“Just heavens! Tell me, for I am vastly interested, how you found this out?”

“A few days ago—or, to be more precise, the day after Count Camus had returned from a hunting expedition with Monsieur de Rochefort, he was walking with his wife in the grounds of Trianon. He had brought with him a prepared rose.”

“A prepared rose?”

“A rose poisoned with one of those subtle poisons, whose secret was brought to France by the Italians in the time of King Charles IX. Once prepared, these roses have to be kept under cover, enclosed in a box. So kept, their virtue, or rather their vice, remains unimpaired for a considerable time, but once removed from the box, it disappears in the course of a few hours.”

“Yes, yes, but what is their power, and how is it used?”

“Quite simply. The person who smells the perfume of the rose dies.”

“Dies, simply from the perfume?”

“Absolutely, and as certainly as though he had drunk the Aqua Tofana of the Florentines.”

“Go on.”

“Well, our man, walking with his wife in the grounds of the Trianon close to Les Onze Arpents, took this rose from its box unseen by his companion, and carrying it very gingerly, you may be sure, by the tip of the stalk with the flower hanging downwards, was about to present it laughingly to her, when Atalanta, who was following them, out of caprice, or playfulness, or perhaps attracted by something in the scent of the flower, made a snap at it. Camus, on feeling what had happened, threw the ruined flower away behind his back into some bushes—and Atalanta paid the penalty instead of the lady.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you prove it against the Count?”

“Not in the least. Or, that is to say, not effectually. I could cover him with suspicion, but that is useless.”

“How, then, do you propose to proceed?”

“Ah, my dear captain, if I were to tell you that, I would tell you what I don’t exactly know.”

“You don’t know what you are going to do?”

“Pardon me. I do, but not in an exact manner. But I will tell you this. My first move is to get into the house of Count Camus.”

“On a warrant from de Sartines?”

“Heavens, no, as a servant. We have a man in all the important houses, and I believe one in the house of the Count.”

“Certainly we have. You know that Sartines suspects him, and where suspicion goes there our servants go also. Stay.” He rang a bell.

When a clerk answered the summons, he gave him an order, and the clerk returned in a few minutes with a huge book, bound in vellum and with a brass lock.

Beauregard took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the book.

He turned to the pages marked C, and ran his finger down the first column for the space of three inches.

“Yes. Jumeau is acting as pantry-man in the service of the Count.”

“He is almost useless,” said Lavenne; “but let us be thankful that he is there. Now let us send at once, and tell him that his mother is dying and that he must come at once; his cousin—that is to say, myself—is ready to take on his duties. As the cousin, I will take the message myself. I have just left the service of Monsieur—shall we say, Monsieur Gaston Le Roux?—he belongs to us. You will send a man round to him at once for a testimonial. The pantry-man’s duty is to look after the plate, to clean it, keep it in order, be responsible for it, and to do a few light duties.”

“Very well,” said Beauregard, “all that shall be done.”

“And now,” said Lavenne, “I must go and dress for the part, and in an hour, when the testimonial arrives, I will be ready. Let it be dated last month, and let it be for two years’ service. I may not even want it at all; they will be very glad, I should think, to accept Jumeau’s cousin’s service whilst Jumeau is seeing after his sick mother, and so save themselves the trouble of doing without a servant or hunting for one. Still, it is as well to be prepared at all points.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Beauregard. “Well, good luck to you.”

Lavenne took his departure and hurried round to his rooms in the Rue Picpus. It was now seven o’clock in the evening. It had been a busy day for him, but the work of that day was not over yet. When he arrived at the house in the Rue Picpus, he found someone waiting for him. It was Javotte.

“Monsieur,” said Javotte, “when I spoke to you this morning, I did not tell you quite all that I knew about the affairs of Monsieur de Rochefort. There was something I held back, and I would like to tell you it now.”

“Come in,” said Lavenne, with a smile. The eternal feminine was the same in his day as ours—that is to say, it might be summed up in the same words: “The animal with a postscript.”