Free For the King by Catherine Delors Page B

like a flower growing on a dunghill.
    “Why, Mama,” she asked the older woman, “do you not introduce this gentleman?”
    Roch stared. He had trouble believing that the young woman was Madame de Cléry’s daughter.
    “Well, Blanche dearest, Chief Inspector Miquel is from the police. You know that the Minister kindly extends his protection to my establishment.” Her eyes turned away, she waved in Blanche’s direction. “Sir, this is my daughter, Madame Coudert.”
    Roch frowned. He was unpleasantly surprised to learn that the young woman was married. But then, why not? He had heard of Coudert, the banker, who had already been one of the richest men in Paris before the Revolution. He had to be at least thirty years older than this wife of his.
    Blanche, still smiling, held out her hand to Roch.
    “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir. Will you do me the honor of calling on me tomorrow night? It will only be a simple musical gathering. I live on Rue de Babylone.”
    Roch took Blanche’s proffered hand and made no response. She seemed to take his silence as an acceptance, and she fled the room as lightly as an apparition. All that remained of her was a fragrance of carnation and lily of the valley. He left promptly, avoiding Madame de Cléry’s eye.
    Roch wondered about Blanche. The Cléry woman must be rich. The gaming salon, judging by its ample contributions to the coffers of the Ministry, appeared to prosper. Why had Blanche married Coudert? For his money? Madame de Cléry could certainly have spared Blanche a mercenary marriage. Had Coudert used other arguments to pressure the mother into giving him her daughter? Now there was pity, disgust and some curiosity mixed with Roch’s admiration of Blanche’s loveliness.
    Roch hesitated before accepting her invitation. Yet the next day he walked to the Coudert mansion, located at the far end of Rue de Babylone. The weather was dry, fine for a late September evening. He passed the monumental gates, crossed the front courtyard and made his way past the row of carriages bringing Madame Coudert’s guests.
    He whistled softly as he climbed the flight of steps that led to the front door, flanked by a row of marble columns in the antique style. Madame Coudert lived in a palace. He was wearing his best black coat and white silk stockings, but hesitated before crossing the threshold. He chided himself for his cowardice.
    Who were those people anyway? He imagined what his father would say. Upstarts who, since the beginning of the war, eight years earlier, had grown rich providing the armies with riz-pain-sel , rice-bread-salt, or speculating on the precipitous decline of the assignats , the Republic’s paper money. Opposing parties and their leaders had risen and fallen, but the war, with its many opportunities, continued to this day. And now those people, their fortunes made, were trying to ape the ci-devant nobles, the former aristocrats.
    A servant in a red livery, a sneer on his face, raised his arm to stop Roch. The man must have seen that he had come on foot, but let him pass upon hearing his name. Roch muttered, loud enough to be heard, “Lackey.”
    He followed other guests up the stairs, lined with bouquets of ferns and the last roses of the season. The movement of the crowd and the noise of violins being tuned guided him to a vast salon, entirely paneled with gold-framed mirrors. They reflected to infinity the lights of crystal chandeliers and giant bronze candlesticks. Naked Roman deities, their pink flesh resting on plump pillowlike clouds, peered down at the company from the painted ceiling.
    The men were dressed in black like Roch, or wore brightly colored uniforms trimmed in gold or silver braid. The women were clad in short-sleeved gowns, stiff with embroidery and covered with diamonds, emeralds and rubies set in flower patterns. Many had the thick, ruddy arms of former washerwomen, which did not prevent them from displaying row after row of