Free Game of Patience by Susanne Alleyn Page A

a fault—it’s a mercy he hasn’t become a spoiled little monster. But he’s an agreeable child, thank Providence, in spite of her indulging him. Have you met the lad yet?”
    Aristide shook his head. “Not yet.”
    “Talk to him if you can; small boys always know things. I expect you to find this brute who killed Célie, do you hear me? And send him to the scaffold as he deserves. I hear they’ve done away with hanging, and with breaking on the wheel?”
    “Yes, madame.” He kept his voice steady, indifferent. “Several years ago.”
    “And now every criminal is allowed to be beheaded, like a gentleman?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s far too good for them,” she said with a snap of her mouth like an old, ill-tempered tortoise, and rang the bell for her maid.

CHAPTER 7
     
    “ I hope your visit didn’t distress madame overmuch?” Montereau inquired when Aristide returned, still brushing away white hairs from his waistcoat, to the study where Brasseur and the ex-count awaited him.
    “Not at all. Citizen, with your permission, I think we ought to search your daughter’s rooms.”
    Montereau rose and led the way. As they approached the broad, curving staircase, a small, fair-haired boy raced down it and skidded to a stop before them.
    “Are you the police?” he demanded.
    “My son, Théodore,” Montereau said. He let his hand linger for a moment on the boy’s disheveled head before stepping aside and murmuring, “I’ve not yet told him what has happened; all he knows is that Célie is missing.”
    “Yes, we’re the police,” said Brasseur, kindly. “I am Commissaire Brasseur and these are Citizens Ravel and Dautry.”
    “I want to be a gendarme or a soldier and ride on a horse,” the boy announced. “They have swords, and mustaches, and splendid uniforms. Not like those,” he added, staring from Brasseur to Aristide. The funereal ensemble worn by police officials—black coat, hat, waistcoat, culotte, stockings, and shoes, relieved only by a discreet white cravat—had remained unchanged throughout the Revolution save for the addition of a tricolor sash or cockade.
    “Théodore, that’s not polite,” his father said.
    Aristide summoned a slight smile. “Let him be, citizen… . It’s the mounted gendarmes who draw all the attention, it’s true, while the police go about looking like undertakers.” Though he privately thought the austere costume suited him, a little self-deprecation often served to put nervous witnesses at ease.
    “But do you know what, young Théodore?” said Brasseur. “Those gendarmes in their fancy uniforms are just for show; it’s the commissaires who do all the real work, and catch the criminals and send them to justice.” He patted the boy’s cheek and moved on toward the staircase.
    The boy tagged along behind them as they entered the rooms Célie Montereau had occupied. The bedchamber and boudoir were airy and feminine in white and pale spring green. The painted panels of the boiseries lining the walls complemented the figured bed curtains and the rich emerald velvet window curtains and brocade upholstery of the footstools, chairs, and love seat.
    Aristide glanced over the small stack of books on a side table. The Castle of Néville, or, The Orphan Heiress, read one pair of tooled leather spines. Works of the Abbé Delille. The breathless tale of Caroline, or, The Vicissitudes of Fortune, filled another three small volumes. Shaking his head at youthful female taste, he shook the books one by one as Brasseur and Dautry advanced gingerly toward the wardrobe and chest of drawers. Aristide did not expect to find anything there, although sometimes girls, like his sister Thérèse, might hide secrets among their underlinen.
    Nothing fell from the books but a milliner’s bill and a few pressed and faded flowers. He turned to the dressing table, thinking of Madame Beaumontel and her jewelry box. He reached for the lid to Célie’s, found it locked as he expected, and